You Did What With Halo?
by Brochelle
Summary: A series of parody fics starring the usual suspects. Some may be sad, some may be funny... actually, I'm hoping the majority will be funny. Review/PM with an idea and see what you get.
1. What Is It With Men And Directions?

The intense silence that lounged languidly in the absence of any real noise, besides that of the Warthog's surprisingly still operational engine, wasn't something the Master Chief was unused to. The unoccupied turret mounted on the bed of the 'Hog rattled as he took a sharp turn down another street, in the shadow of a skyscraper that pierced the murky sky of New Mombasa. There were no enemies in sight; nor any friendlies. His COMM was silent, and his motion tracker placid. In the distance mortar boomed and plasma weaponry crackled. There was no wind, no difference in temperature that hinted that the planet was currently under attack by an alien race, unless one was blind and didn't see the destroyed vehicles, discarded weapons, and broken bodies.

A growled statement, said reluctantly. "Fine."

"Oh really?"

Cortana's voice was skeptical and he imagined her, eyebrow raised in disapproval and arms crossed. She eyed him and the corner of her lip raised in a smirk. The Master Chief realized he was just imagining her; he shook the image from his head and scowled behind the amber glass. "Yes," he said between gritted teeth. "I'm sorry."

Now he imagined the smirk blossoming into a full grin. She knew how much it annoyed him to have to speak more than he wanted to. In his imagination, she dropped her arms and tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

"Here's the city layouts," Cortana said, drawing up a grid on his HUD. The maze-like streets seemed haphazardly strewn across the razed city, and he had trouble identifying his current position. "This is where we need to go," Cortana added, and a green line beginning from a street (which he noted was a dead end) and going in a virtual straight line. "And for comedic purposes," the AI said, voice laughing, "Your path over the course of the last three hours."

A squiggly red line ran rampant within the city's interior. It looked like it had been drawn by three-year-old on a sugar high.

"That's unnecessary," he said sourly. His statement was met by laughter.

"You've been in a real bad mood lately," Cortana said casually. "I didn't think Spartans got frustrated."

"Of course they do," the Chief said, then a moment later, corrected: "I mean, of course we do. I do."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"No."

A huff of irritation erupted from the AI's lips. His imagination produced an image of her rolling her eyes and blowing a stray hair away from her eyes.

"Whatever."

The trip resumed silence for several moments before Cortana broke it. "Hey, you were cute as a kid!"

The Master Chief braked so violently they skidded for a few feet before they actually stopped. The engine cut out.

"What? Are you looking through my files?"

"Yes," came the prompt response.

The Master Chief was mentally flustered for a few moments, then reminded himself he was a Spartan; Spartans controlled their intentions and feelings. His mind, however, wouldn't let it go; he tried to think of something, anything, to use against the AI. Something came and he started the car, trying to appear casual.

They drove on for at least a mile (in the right direction, this time) when the Master Chief noted:

"You've been in a crazy mood too."

This was met by silence. "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, you know, it's probably nothing."

His imagination: she was narrowing her eyes and biting her lip. "'Nothing'?"

He didn't answer. He knew Cortana would run a few self-diagnostic scans, find nothing prominent, then come back with a scalding remark.

"That's not funny, Chief."

"Why?" he said innocently.

"Because," she began, getting worked up, "If I were to be Rampant, that would mean I'd have to be destroyed. If I weren't destroyed, my code would destroy itself, and in my madness I'd probably destroy you as well."

Her voice cracked. The Master Chief felt a trace of guilt.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Cortana grunted something incoherent. "Yeah, well, that little gap between your teeth is a little dorky."

"Dorky?!"

"Yes… but that's okay, your current file picture looks alright."

The Master Chief was regretting his crazy comment.

"You should smile more," she added, and the tone in her voice was enough to make him nervous.

* * *

A week or so later, while cleaning out his armor and weapons in a temporary bunker, the AI appeared in the Master Chief's quarters.

She stood on the temporary holotank and examined his handiwork; his deft fingers flew over the dismantled Assault Rifle with the precision of a machine. He put the gun back into operational mode, flicked the safety on, and started to reload it. Setting it aside, he began again with a Battle Rifle.

Soon that weapon was cleaned, and he moved on to his armor. Reaching for his helmet, his fingers were just about to close around the cool metal when Cortana said:

"I'm going to close a few backdoors, and uh, run some subroutines."

The Master Chief nodded and the light of the holotank dimmed as the AI left.

Hefting his helmet, he looked at the visor and frowned.

There, in thick black ink, was a rather carefully drawn smiley face.

**A/N****_: A little random. Beginning of a series of one-shots that occasionally are related, but often not. Please tell me what you think!_**


	2. It's Not A No

"Oh, so it's my fault?"

"It might as well-" Veronica's hands flipped over the 'Hog's steering wheel as she struggled to avoid a gob of plasma. "-be, for all I care!"

Eddie Buck's visor depolarized and his scowling face appeared. "You're the one who-"

His voice was cut off as a hail of Banshee plasma assaulted the troop transport 'Hog; Veronica lost control of the wheel, and they rammed into the granite cliffs that made up the canyon. From the engine of the 'Hog a thick cloud of cancerous smoke belched and sheltered the two from view. The Banshee swooped up to avoid the same fate, but the pilot didn't leave – instead, the vehicle circled the crash site and waited for the two humans to emerge.

"Hot damn, thank all things holy that the brass give us helmets," muttered Buck, stumbling from the 'Hog and falling flat on his back. He watched the Banshee orbit their position. Distantly he was reminded of those ever-present raptors he'd seen circling the sky on Harvest, the ones that circled the battle fields then descended to feast on _his _men. His _dead_ men. He quickly retreated into the overhanging cliffside – the Banshee couldn't see him, but he was in a helluva lot of trouble if it came in for another pass.

A thick _thump!_ and a grunt told him that Veronica had survived the crash as well. He peered under the Warthog's belly and saw Veronica sit up and load her sidearm. _Click. Click. Click_.

"Last time I let you drive," he said out-loud. Veronica snorted. _Click._

"Like you're any better," she said sarcastically. Buck made a noise of protest, then stopped and pointed out she was the one that had crashed the 'Hog to begin with.

"Yes, and _you're _the one who picked the damn _troop transport_!"

A high-pitched screaming that was the Banshee interrupted further conversation. "Move!" barked the ODST, rolling out of the way just as the Banshee lobbed plasma at the 'Hog. The vehicle exploded, spewing shrapnel and burning rubber into the air.

The Banshee darted through the black mushrooming cloud and gained altitude. At the apogee of its climb, the purple vehicle nosed downward and dove for the wreckage, spitting plasma from its duel cannons. Buck stumbled to his feet and ran ahead of the trailing plasma and ducked behind a boulder. The boulder caught a smattering of the super-heated plasma and half of it boiled away.

"Veronica!" Buck called out. "Say something!"

Silence for a few moments. Then: "I swear when we get back-"

"I can take you to dinner?" Buck finished hopefully.

"No way in hell!"

Buck sighed explosively. Peeking around the edge of the half-melted boulder, he saw the Banshee circumnavigate the area for a few minutes, then leave slowly. As soon as the vehicle disappeared past the cliffs, the ODST made for Veronica's position.

"What do we have against it?" he hissed. Veronica shrugged.

"Hell if I know!"

They waited. "I think it's gone," Veronica said.

An awkward silence.

"So I can take you to dinner?"

She looked at him, eyebrow raised and her lips scrunched in a unamused scowl.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

She looked off, over the cliffs.

"It's a long walk home," she noted. "I… might change my mind…."

Buck grinned wildly. "Is that a yes?"

"It's not a 'no'."


	3. When In Doubt Let Dutch Cook

**_Sorry for the wait, chickens. Remember I create fics from what the reviewers suggest. Aye?

* * *

_**

"Shut up!"

"I'm trying-" the latter voice was reduced to mirthful giggles, quite unexpected of a man his age. "You know Buck is going to hate this."

Romeo grinned broadly. "Why do you think I'm doing it?" he asked. He tapped a few more keys on the computer pad, then pressed _enter_ with a degree of satisfaction.

"Because you like getting your ass beaten?" suggested Dutch, striding into the room. His scarred features were ghostly in the lights cast by dormant computer screens. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he wasn't exactly smiling.

Romeo shrugged. "Maybe."

"We should get the Rook in on this," mused Mickey. "He has a thing for computers." The pilot turned to watch the codes scroll across the screen.

"Or maybe you should get _me _in on this," said Dutch. Romeo and Mickey turned to stare at the ODST.

"You can be the cook," Romeo said.

* * *

"Okay okay okay... here he comes."

There was a shuffle of feet and a bang as Mickey dropped a bowl. This was followed by several colorful curses, executed by Dutch and Romeo alike. Then:

"I'd like a table for two, please."

A young man, his blond hair thick around his head, widened his big blue eyes. He blinked and straightened his tux. Raising a finger, he indicated the farthest table in the restaurant. Buck, wearing a nice black suit, extended the crook of his arm. A woman, with her long, blond hair tied up in a cascading ponytail, simply placed a hand on his arm. A scowl flitted across Buck's face.

"Thank you, sir," he said. He and his date left for the table. The young man watched them disappear amongst the tables. He restrained himself from admiring Veronica Dare's curvaceous figure, only accented by her black dress. Then the young man slammed a open palm against the bell.

It sounded, clear and bright, in the empty room.

That was their cue.

* * *

"Did you hear that?"

"Of course I heard that - it's our cue."

"Well move your ass then!"

Mickey stumbled out of the swing doors leading from the kitchen, sliding on his roller skates. Dutch had insisted he wear them, along with a tuxedo. How can you say no to _that_?

He skated nimbly, avoiding the empty tables, skidding to a stop at the proper table. He produced a pad of paper from his apron and clicked a ballpoint pen. "Can I take your order, sir?" he asked, adopting a thick French accent. He kept his pen poised over the paper.

"I'll have a glass of Chardonnay, White Falls '77. And some Caesar salad," Veronica said immediately, folding her hands and resting her elbows on the table. The flicker of the candle played with the edges of her face.

"And I'll have the same," Buck said. He stared at Mickey, head tilted. "Hey, do I know you-"

"No sir," Mickey said hastily, twitching his lip to make the moustache wiggle. He turned abruptly on his heel and skated back to the kitchen. Across the room, the young waiter watched Mickey go, before remembering his duty. He stared away from Buck intentionally.

* * *

"So I'm keeping a promise I made a while ago," Veronica hissed. "Doesn't mean anything."

"Are you sure? Why would you come smelling so nice? I remember telling you how I liked your perfume," Buck said, grinning.

"Coincidence."

"I think not."

Veronica scowled and rubbed at her diamond bracelet. "Can't stand this," she growled. She eyed the restaurant. The place was small and colored with deep reds and browns. All twenty-seven tables remained empty. "And how the hell are we the only ones here? It's a Friday night, first week of leave."

"Do you not like my company, Veronica?"

"I detest it."

"Aw, you're making me blush..."

"Shut up."

Mickey came skating out of the red atmosphere. He placed two clear glasses on the table cloth, pouring a deep red liquid into both. Then he placed a salad bowl in the middle, leaving two slim packages alongside. He disappeared, followed by a crash of glass on tile in the kitchen.

"Uh... this is red wine," Buck said. "Chardonnay is white, right?"

"Yes."

"And these are chopsticks."

"So they are."

Veronica stared at the ensemble, then rose and stomped off to the kitchen. Buck watched her go, helpless to stop her.

* * *

"Why chopsticks?" cried Romeo. "You gave them red wine and _salad_?"

"They asked for chardonnay!" argued Dutch. He wiped his hands on his apron and threw his hands in the air. "That's red, isn't it?"

"It's white!"

Just then the twin doors slammed open.

"Alright, I want to know who the hell's in charge here!"

Romeo cowered before Veronica. Dutch grinned and snickered, turning away to 'cook'. He was stopped by a vise-like grip on his shoulder. He turned back, ever so slowly.

"Why is everyone wearing moustaches?" Veronica asked, her anger giving way to curiosity.

"I've got the orange peels!" sang Mickey, skating gracefully from the store room. He slid to a very slow stop.

Veronica slumped. "Are you kidding me."

"Er, no?" Romeo tried.

"Is the Rookie in on this?"

"He's at the front. The waiter," Dutch said, his lips twitching in a smile.

"Does Buck know?"

"He doesn't have to," suggested Mickey, very quietly.

"I think we can arrange that. What was your original plan?"

* * *

Veronica came back, swinging her hips slightly. She set down two plates of steak, dropping a knife and fork before Buck.

"Eat," she ordered.

"Don't mind if I do," Buck said, digging in. Veronica watched him as he sawed off piece after piece.

"Aren't you going to wait for the lady's meal?" Dare asked softly.

Buck looked at her, looked at the steak she wasn't eating, and twitched an eyebrow. "Did you-?"

"Yes," Veronica said. She smiled sweetly and waited for the tranquilizer mixed in the barbeque sauce to set in. Buck slumped, eyes closed in forced sleep.

"HE'S OUT!" she yelled. The ODST team came out of the kitchen. The Rookie trailed behind them.

"Do what you were going to," she prompted. Dutch grinned and hefted the limp Gunny, throwing him over his shoulder.

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Buck groaned as he woke up very slowly. He felt the cold wind and gasped as he realized he was very much naked.

"Ah!" he cried, looking wildly for his clothes. He stumbled from the cryo tube.

"Crap!" he muttered. "How long have I been in there?"

His voice echoed in the cold, empty room. The vapors from the cryo tube froze his ankles.

"Anyone?"

* * *

**_Who can guess who Rookie is fashioned after? Think live-action._**


	4. Tango, Spartan style

As if it were its own home turf, night was falling slowly and casually over the terrain of Reach. Shadows grew longer and the forest grew forbidding; animals chittered to one another as darkly as if exchanging malicious plans. Within minutes, the sun had hidden behind the farthest mountain range, plunging the world into the dark of night.

A few moments passed, and a paler, more ethereal light peeked over the opposite mountains. Reach's spotty moon peered at the forest dominating the valley, throwing everything into ghostly detail with its appearance. It was a scene worthy of a Friedrich painting.

And suddenly, three singular shadows detached themselves from the coagulated mass and traveled a short distance, dashing across the clearing to the other stretch of trees. Once safely reunited with the darkness cast by the towering pines, one of the shadows dared to speak.

"We are _so _screwed."

John rolled his eyes, the gesture made futile by the night. "No, we aren't. We just need to find their base."

"How do you suggest we do that?" demanded Fred. Scruffy blond hair, somehow glowing with moonlight, shook vehemently in the fashion once popular amongst teenage boys.

"They're on the other side of the creek," a third voice stated flatly. Linda shifted to her knees, the rustle of fatigue pants only a whisper against the nighttime cacophony.

John raised his eyebrows in the dark. "Really?"

"I heard them cross the creek. Grace can rig a bomb to blow at a snap of the fingers, and Kelly could probably leap the water, but Will is everything _but_ silent."

Fred held up a fist, signaling them to be silent. "Did you hear that?" he asked quietly. The group slid into silence, straining their ears to catch a whisper on the wind. John noted the woodland creatures had fallen silent.

After a few tense minutes, birds started to chirp angrily. A branch cracked, and John barked, "They're here!"

Screaming children dashed from the trees, bringing the fight to the clearing. Moonlight outlined everything in ashen tones, making everything appear as though the dead had come to play.

Then flashes of silver, shining brilliantly, obvious in the night. Triggers were pulled, and with soft _pfft_s, tranqs were fired.

Linda deflected the first blue-feathered missile with a twist of her own gun, the cold silver shining. Grace fired again, but Linda ran backwards, and easily dodged it. Grace growled and jumped forward, tackling the sniper in a full-body tackle, football style. The two children fell to the ground without a breath of air.

Bulky Will ran straight for Fred, fists flying, connecting with and only the air. Fred dodged the sharp jabs, smiling as he did so, and returning punches only when Will's shots went wild. The opportunity presented itself and Fred came in close, kicking Will's stomach, sending the boy gasping and wheezing to the ground.

Kelly grinned as she jumped at John, moving swiftly and expertly. John bit his lip and went on the offensive, keeping out of reach. To the untrained eye, it appeared as though girl and boy were dancing. Of course, to those in the know, Kelly and John were sizing each other up.

"I won't hit a girl," John teased. He had his arms before him in a classic sumo-wrestler stance.

Kelly growled, somehow heard over the noise of battle. "Chivalristic, pig-headed jerk…" she hissed. "Come over _here_ and say that."

"Agreed."

John jumped forward, but Kelly dodged the tackle, leaving John with nothing but air. He reached out desperately and caught Kelly's arm, dragging her with him. He crashed to the grass, still clutching Kelly's arm, when he felt his head explode. Kelly jumped away after the punch, ripping her arm from his grasp. John leaped nimbly to his feet and apprehending Kelly again.

Another tango of forces was in session.

They came together, one of John's hands grabbing her shoulder, the other reaching back for the punch. The blow sent Kelly reeling backwards. She felt for her jaw, touched the fast-forming bruise, and growled angrily. She came forward again and grabbed John's shoulders, bringing him forward in a star-shattering headbutt.

He tugged his tranq gun from his belt at the same time she did, and the whipped on each other, guns brought to bear on the opposite. It fell silent, and the very image of reality flickered, dying out like someone had pulled the plug.

Which someone had.

"Alright, training is over," came a tinny voice, as if over a COMM. Nighttime on Reach was replaced with a white-washed gymnasium, the room used for simulations. A door at the far end of the gym opened automatically to reveal Doctor Halsey and CPO Mendez.

Kelly and John didn't break eye contact, instead staring each other down. John breathed heavily and Kelly grinned slyly. Will was on the ground, his breathing shallow, while Fred stood watching Kelly with interest. Linda and Grace were wrestling, Spartan-style, exchanging punches with ease. Neither gave hint they were tiring.

"Drop your weapons, Spartans," Mendez ordered. He walked toward Kelly and John quickly, but not quick enough to halt the fight.

Will stopped his heavy breathing and shot Fred in the back. The Spartan toppled to the ground, the blue bristled tranq emerging from his back like some bizarre flower. Will laughed, which abruptly stopped, as the weakened Fred shot him in the shoulder with his own tranq. Grace got kicked in the jaw and slouched limply, unconscious.

"Spartans-" started Mendez, but stopped abruptly when three tranq guns were turned on him. He raised his hands slowly, lips pressed in a firm line. But his eyes were smiling.

Kelly turned and pegged Linda, then turned quickly and shot John. Both Spartans tumbled, and Kelly grinned wildly.

"Stop tranqing people," ordered Doctor Halsey, striding past Mendez and yanking the gun from Kelly's hand. "It's very counter-productive."

Kelly shrugged, blowing air through her lips, the blue bangs flying out of her eyes.

* * *

**_OOC, didn't get Fred's hair color right, Will isn't a moving mountain, yada yada yada. Get over it. Like it? Tell me why. Hate it? Get over it._**


	5. Little Birds, pt 1

"…and how did you come by this information, Spartan?"

John-117 set down the weights and sat up to face the Thel 'Vadam. Being the only alien in the weights room, Thel was gathering looks of varying degrees: looks of respect, looks of surprise, and looks of disgust. The Arbiter seemed mostly unaware of the attention, staring down at the Spartan in curiosity.

"A little bird told me," John said, his voice low and husky, carrying a faint undertone of sarcasm. _Of course_, he thought, _if that little bird was an AI with the capacity to direct a fleet of ships._

"I did not think aviary creatures divulged such knowledge," replied Thel confusedly.

"Ergh… no…" groaned John. This being the third time the two soldiers had argued regarding idioms, it was an understatement to say John was frustrated. "Meaning, someone told me but they meant to be sneaky about it. Like a passing bird."

"Birds don't talk in your language."

John face-palmed. "No, it's an _idiom_. Like, 'I have a thing for…'" he trailed off, searching the room."…Miranda," he finished. As soon as he said it, he regretted it. _Crap_.

"What do you have?" asked Thel. He seemed deeply interested now.

"No- it means you like them. You have a 'thing' for them."

"You have a 'thing' for Miranda?"

"Yes- no. No."

"You do not like her?"

"Well, in a friendly kind of way…"

"Not in a way in which you wish to be mates?"

"What?" John said, louder than he intended. "No. Not at all!"

"Ah," Thel said knowledgeably. "Of course. After all, you only have a 'thing' for the construct."

"Do not."

The Sangheili tilted his head. "I will not play these childish games, Spartan. But why is it Miranda wishes to hold a… 'fleet-wide ceremony'?"

The Spartan shrugged, getting up from the bench and slipping into his coat as he prepared to leave. "To 'mingle'. I don't plan on going."

"Seeing as it is mandatory, and you are the only present Spartan, I find it unlikely they will not notice your disappearence."

John growled, trying not to listen. He opened the gym door, holding it open for the Arbiter, who bent down and shouldered his way through the door.

"…And you must bring a female," the Arbiter added nonchalantly. "Who shall you bring?"

"I'm not going," John protested.

"What bird relayed the information of the ceremony?" Arbiter asked slowly.

"THERE WAS NO BIRD!"

* * *

"Okay, so lift those banners and drape them over the nails in the walls... yes."

Sergeant Johnson, wearing brilliant dress whites, lifted the smooth silk and hooked it on the nails. He had to admit, the football-sized ceremonial room looked quite nice; half was done up in whites and blues and golds. Two large banners, one emblazoned with the UNSC symbol and the other with an elaborate knot spelling 'SRM', were pinned up at the first wall you saw when you walked in through the lobby. The other half sported dark purple and midnight blue wall drapes, colors of the Sangheili Republic Militia. No other officers were around to help touch up the room; Miranda Keyes' voice echoed through the empty room like a cathedral.

She was wearing her own dress whites, and her hair was longer than usual. As she pulled up the last of the drapes, she hesitated, and looked at Johnson slowly.

"If that's _you _staring at _my_ ass, I'll stuff a grenade up _yours_," she said lowly. Johnson grinned wildly, slipping his cigar from one side of his lips to the other side. The Commander wrinkled her nose at the smell wafting through the air.

"Well?" Johnson asked. "What's next?"

Miranda stood back and admired her work. "Did Lord Hood find the music for the ceremony?"

"Yes..."

Johnson led Miranda to a panel set in the wall. He flipped open the flap and tapped a few holographic buttons, his finger passing through the opaque diagram. Music exploded from the speakers scattered throughout the room. It was a quick, snappy song of the late twentieth century. He found himself tapping a foot to the floor subconciously, bobbing his head in tune.

"Catchy tunes, huh?" he said conversationally.

"Yes. I don't know how you could dance to this," replied Miranda. But her eyes were twinkling at the sheer insanity of the beat.

"Oh, simple. Like this-" he grabbed her hand, pulling her into the dance. He twirled her about and she twisted on one foot; if she'd been wearing a dress it would have been flaring. She was grinning wildly.

Johnson dropped her hand, his own smile matching hers. The music changed to a Mozart-sounding piece, with sweeping violins and deep trumpets.

"How would you dance to this one?" asked Miranda teasingly; she doubted the bad-ass sergeant would know.

"Easy."

He placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip. She had both hands on his shoulders, and they began a short box dance, slowly becoming more elaborate. It soon became a test of knowledge, trying to see who knew more.

Johnson let her go, still holding her hand daintly, then pulled her back quickly. Hand on her back, they finished the dance with a sweep.

"And this is... a awkward situation?" asked a rather deep, rolling voice.

"Yes," replied a more gravely one.

Johnson glanced up to see John and Thel staring at the dancers quite curiously. He accidentally dropped Miranda, who gasped and caught herself, brushing away imaginary dust and intentionally standing a few feet away from Johnson. In the background, music still played. The sergeant looked to be blushing.

"Ooh, ah, um..."

The Arbiter looked quickly at John. "I thought _you _had a thing for Miranda."

"_What?_" yelled Miranda.

"Oh god," whispered John, face-palming again.

"What do you have for Miranda?" asked Johnson.

"NOTHING."

* * *

**_For '66, this is a two-parter. Any suggestions, THROW EM MY WAY._**


	6. Little Birds, pt 2

**_Thank you for that detailed review, 'Zilla. I appreciate the input. MORALE=BOOSTED

* * *

_**

The collar was stiff; the color was too bright; his shoes were too small; and he forgot to shave away the stubble gracing his chin. Of course, it wasn't too bad when Cortana had told him he looked like a ruggedly handsome zombie, which _he _took as a compliment. Overall, he was tired, bored, and he didn't have a girl on his arm.

All in all, John was _not _excited about this ceremony.

He adjusted his stiff sleeves (which were annoyingly short) and looked around the lobby in search of a bench. He found one, tucked modestly in a corner, and made for it with the desperation of a drowning man for a life jacket.

From his vantage point, he watched all manner of brass come in through the silver doors. Lord Hood came in alone, though the amount of ribbon on his chest was presence enough. A soldier, who John recognized as Gunnery Sergeant Edward Buck, entered the lobby slowly, tugging at his stiff collar. A noticeably-taller woman was at his side; she was rather Amazonic, and not exactly pretty, but more handsome. She was smiling at Buck's uncomfortableness.

Behind them came Johnson and Miranda, both of which were a safe distance from the other, walking slowly to the orchestra music.

A train of other officers wound their way through the lobby, more or less ignoring the hiding Spartan. John was cool with that.

A boy – because he was that, he was hardly into his twenties – came through the door, looking nervously side to side like a jumpy rabbit. He had shaggy blond hair, a prominent yet narrow nose, and big blue eyes. He wore navy-blue dress clothes, accented with shiny gold buttons. On his arm was a pretty brunette, grinning pleasantly to everyone she passed. The boy glanced at John and blinked once before turning away again.

John's ear began to itch.

"Guess you're not so good at hiding after all," Cortana said, her voice warbled with the tell-tale sound of COMM. The earpiece he wore vibrated gently with her voice. John adjusted the piece and leaned back on the bench.

"I wouldn't be so sure," he countered.

The AI gave a musing noise before asking slyly, "Is this your idea of having a girl on your arm?"

John laughed explosively. "Is it yours?"

"I'm sure _I _don't mind."

John couldn't help the smile. "I guess I don't either."

Now he could almost hear her grin. "Do you dance?"

"Well enough."

Now it was her laughing, and the noise was of merry bells. "You should get going."

"Only if the lady is willing."

"And she is."

* * *

Thel 'Vadam stood awkwardly in a corner, quite like the Spartan, hiding from someone he feared as much as being labeled a Heretic.

Awn 'Uramee. The sword master. The fleet master of a hundred ships. Well known for having stopped the Prophet of Truth's first bombardment of the Ark. The Elite was skilled, dangerous, and also very much his promised mate.

Ever Sangheili, when born, is bonded to a mate of the opposite gender. Even when he goes off to war, the Sangheili must return to his home planet and his mate.

Unfortunately, this applies to Thel as well.

From his vantage point, he could see Awn questioning a few Sangheili nobles of his whereabouts. She was a tall, athletic alien with icy blue eyes, wearing robin's egg blue robes that sharply complimented her skin tone. Her back was to him.

Thel was wearing ash-dark robes decorated with black sigils and curls. If he had to, he'd duck under the Universal snack table and hide it out. Forerunners, Rtas would pay for this....

With a flash of blue, Awn whipped about and set eyes on Thel, who froze up then dropped under the table. He tucked his robes up and stopped breathing.

"Hey...."

He jumped and bumped his head on the table. Cursing under his breath, he swiveled his head to gaze upon a rather small and unimpressive human, wearing dress whites clearly too big for him. He had a shit-ass grin plastered to his face and his dark eyes glittering with something approaching malicious joy. Thel was uncomfortably reminded of those young males that tortured the native animals for fun. That kind of malicious joy.

"You're the Arbiter!" the human cried, and if it were even possible, his grin grew wider. Thel suppressed the overwhelming desire to wipe his face off.

"I prefer Thel," the beleagured Elite replied. He did not like this human... Ancients help him, if this human was an Arbiter Fan Boy he'd have to-

"You're amazing!" the human cried. "I can't believe you did all that cool stuff when you where part of the Covenant! Did you really hunt down the Master Chief?"

"It was part of my honor code," stated Thel icily. "That I redeem my fallen brothers by hunting down the one that savagely killed them."

The human did not hear him. He stuck out a hand awkwardly, exclaiming, "My name is Bartholomew Jones! I'm a Marine. I used to kill a lot of you guys."

_By the Prophets, this male is a fan boy, and most likely the most annoying creature currently breathing._ "It is... pleasant to meet you. Now, I must be going..." Thel struggled to leave the table, popping up and breathing shallowly. He stood up right before the most impressive Sangheili specimen he had ever laid eyes on.

Awn 'Uramee folded her brawny arms and glared down on Thel.

* * *

"Do I have to argue with you?"

John fiddled his fingers. "No. I don't know how to dance." Then, in his ears, "_Lying to a lady? Cruel, cold man!_" He tapped his ear and Cortana stopped talking. Miranda before him stood with legs akimbo, hands on hips and a cold grin stretching her face. She'd been trying to get the reluctant Spartan to dance with her.

"Sure you do."

"I don't," he insisted. Then, with strength belaying her size, tugged John to his feet and started to teach him how to dance.

* * *

Thel scrambled for a cup of _L'ywn_ berry juice and handed it to Awn, flaring his mandibles in a smile. "I have a thing for you, Awn," he said innocently, trying his hand at these human idioms.

Awn took the cup and tilted her head. "Is that so?" her voice was low and faintly laced with feminine tones. She sounded both amused and flattered. "Would you agree to return to Sangheilios and complete the second Bonding?"

Thel gulped. "I am a Peace Ambassador for our race. My work may not be completed for many units."

She smiled dangerously. "I can wait. We will be working together anyway."

If the Elite was capable of Anime sweat drops, he'd be sweating a river. "What?" he asked incredulously.

"I am now the Sangheili War representative. We will be working... hand in hand."

* * *

"I... don't... dance..." John said between gritted teeth.

"You're doing fine," Miranda said gently. "1-2-3, 1-2-3..."

"_4_," said Cortana, sounding quite amused.

"Ergh."

"What?"

"Nothing."

A hand descended on his shoulder and clenched tightly. "And you're dancing with her... _why_."

John winced and stepped away quickly. "All yours, Johnson."

The Sergeant snorted. "Get moving, son."

"Acknowledged." John ran off, making for Thel.

* * *

"_Together_?" Thel cried in agony.

"Quite."

A pale hand came from the sky, reaching down like the hand of gods, and grabbed Thel's wrist. John muttered a quick apology and ran, Thel following. The fan boy under the table, Bartholomew, followed excitedly. Awn watched Thel leave, sighing deeply.

* * *

Standing in the darkened room of the observation deck, Elite and Human looked down on Earth, musing.

"_Miranda will be pissed you left her_," noted Cortana in his ear.

"I can't dance."

"_You established that_."

"Huh."

"_You owe me a dance_."

"You were the girl on my arm..."

"_That's what I meant._"

John smiled.

* * *

**_I know this wasn't your plan exactly, 'Zilla, but I hope you like it. End of Part Two._**


	7. Epitaph and Petty Revenge

_**Think 'Epitaph'.**_

"Who's idea of sick humor was _this_?" demanded Cortana. "_Mingling_? Is this what the term 'mingling' has come to?"

John grinned at the AI's spiel, shaking his head slightly. He felt _great_ right now – for the first time in the months after the war, he was wearing armor and lugging a gun around. Well, a gun of sorts: some training officer thought carrying a paintball gun and battling the 'best of the Sangheili Militia' would teach 'control'.

Heh.

He was crouching behind a collection of black-painted barrels, listening to his radio crackle. In the distance, deep within the Forerunner structure, came the warbled cry of surprise as a Sangheili was tagged. He himself had a splash of purple paint across his chest, vaguely similar to that of a Jackal's blood.

Oh, how merry was he.

"Oh, come now," he teased. "It's like the golden days! The fine times when you and I traipsed across alien worlds…" He popped up from behind the barrels and brought his gun to bear; the Sangheili sneaking up on him was suddenly painted with a violently hot pink, before running away. _Why is it pink?_ he considered briefly, before shrugging and accepting it. Hell, this was fun.

"Hardly," Cortana said bitterly. "I dimly recall staying behind while _you _ran around in the company of split-chins."

"And good times where they."

The AI grumbled, muttering a Mandarin curse under her breath. "I'll see to it that 'training officer' is part of the next round."

"Aw…" John said absentmindedly. He made a dash for another clutch of barrels, rolling and putting his back to the wall. "You're just pissed Hood won't let you operate UNSC property."

"Uh, hey genius." She played a noise reminiscent of a finger tapping glass. "_You_'_re_ UNSC property."

When they'd returned to Earth, after the Ark Campaign, it had been decided Cortana had passed the known boundaries of Rampancy and progressed to Metastability. But seeing as this was a theoretical stage, she was not trusted with anything belonging to the military. Personally, John didn't mind – it just meant Cortana got to hang out with him for quite a long time.

Suddenly a deep blue flash rolled toward him. He stepped to the side to avoid the Spartan soldier, gun at ready.

"Hello, Kelly."

Her visor depolarized, and even in the odd, sepian light, he could see a wolfish smile. "How did you guess?" she asked slyly. She'd changed since he'd seen her last – she was incredibly tall and vaguely Amazonic, and seemed more likely to be running with similarly-tall females and hunting down wildebeasts.

"Your new haircut. I knew only Kelly would ever do that to her hair."

She laughed sharply before halting abruptly and raising her gun. She shot once and florescent pink paint splattered across Thel 'Vadam. He returned fire, missing terribly with the human weapon, before giving up and asking, "Can I join your team?"

Kelly and John exchanged looks before answering in unison: "What the hell?"

"Those damned novices," Thel growled. "I've been shot more than I care to count by the young Sangheili." He turned slowly to reveal his entire back was covered in dark, oily purple paint.

"I'm not sure what the training team would-"

"To hell with the team!" cried Cortana abruptly.

"-think."

Kelly stood up, sweeping the area with her gun, before facing Thel. "You can't join. But I have a feeling you can help us..."

* * *

"Hey, _jerk_. Watch where you're going."

Awn 'Uramee held up a fist and the small troupe of youngsters behind her crashed to a stop. She peered around the corner to see her mate, Thel 'Vadam, standing before a blue-armored human and not firing. The human pushed Thel and Awn felt a flare of anger in her chest.

Thel dropped his weapon clumsily. "Oh no," he said dramatically. "I've dropped by weapon. What shall I do?" Then he made to move toward the human, except she moved quicker than possible; she blurred forward, striking his sternum with the palm of her hand then kicking his backward knees. Thel collapsed on the ground, twitching slightly, playing dead. Kelly made to smash his face but was halted by a looming Awn.

"Human," she intoned. "This is a gunfight. We do not hold fist fights here."

Kelly put her hands on her hips and sneered. "Who are _you _to tell me what to do?"

"I am- _argh!_"

Kelly had reached behind a cluster of armored crates and collected a container filled to the brim with bright pink paint. She and John had created a bowl out of one of the metal barrels, then crushed their paint bullets to create the soup. She'd tossed the entire thing on Awn, covering the giant alien with Pepto-Bismol-colored paint.

Then she made a mad dash for it.

* * *

Kelly came tearing around the corner, reaching out for John and pulling him along. "Gotta go!" she cried, and John could do nothing more than follow.

Behind them came the sound not dissimilar to a rampaging Brute. Awn was stampeding behind them, shooting at their receding backs. They darted for the grav lift, practically leaping into the golden pixels and shooting up like bullets.

"Holy hell, how did you manage to piss her off that much?" John asked breathlessly.

"I dumped all the paint on her."

"We were going to save that!"

"How was I going to run with it?"

"Whatever-"

"-AHHHHHH!" they both screamed in unison as Awn came clawing over the ledge, her head and upper body dyed bright pink. Her double pink mandibles were flared angrily and John had never seen anything scarier. He grabbed Kelly's arm and they went away running.

Taking refuge in a hidden corridor, John seethed, "Give me Gravemind, give me Tartarus, giving me the freaking _Forerunners!_ Anything but Awn!"

Kelly laughed. "I thought she was going to rip my head off."

"I would _not _put it past her."

"What's Thel doing now?"

"Dealing out petty revenge on helpless greenhorns."

"Ah."

Suddenly, Cortana said, "Watch your radar, son."

John glanced reluctantly at his scanner with all the excitement of finding a exit wound. On the blue oval, a large red dot moved with surprising quickness on their position.

"What the hell is that? I've only seen Phantoms move that quick!" Kelly exclaimed.

A thick mitt descended on her shoulder and she froze. Looking up slowly, she saw the monstrous form of Awn, with one brawny arm wrapped around John's upper torso. He was making strange gag noises.

Awn's eyes blazed with fire and her teeth shone with animal ferocity.

"I am Awn."

* * *

**_Okay, once again, not exactly your expectations, 'Zilla. I'm sorry - this turned out way different than I expected. Can't wait to do your ODST idea. Ending is open to interpretation._**


	8. Lethal Weapon

The sharp report of an issued pistol resounded through the indoor shooting range, the only noise present until Edward Buck whooped in glee.

"Haha, did you _see _that shot?" he cried, twirling the pistol on his finger and holstering it with all the skill of a Western Cowboy. He clapped Mickey on the back roughly and the pilot winced.

"Yes, Buck, we _all _saw that," he grumbled. "You're a great shot, yada yada yada, whatever."

"Damn straight I am."

"And modest too."

Buck ignored him, instead pressing a button fixed in the wall. A hidden chain squeaked into action, sending the human-shaped target zooming through the air. As it came closer, it was evident Buck had shot it all across the chest.

"Oh, that sucker's dead!" he exclaimed. He gloated for a few more minutes, generally giving Mickey crap, when the door at the end of the shooting range opened to reveal two others.

It was the Rookie and the girl that followed him around, Anne Crespo. They were holding hands timidly, in the early-lovers kind of way. As they neared Buck and Mickey, the ODSTs fell silent, watching in open curiosity.

"Does the lady shoot?" Buck asked abruptly. The Rook looked at the Gunny in surprise, big blue eyes widening under the brush of blond hair. He sent a questioning glance at Anne, who shrugged.

"Never held a gun, really," she answered, and her voice was soft and gentle. She smiled a little, dimples peppering her cheeks. Buck found himself grinning until Mickey elbowed him sharply.

"Don't mess with my sister, man," he growled.

"I've always wanted to try, though," Anne admitted. The Rook led her to the adjoining stall and fetched a pistol. He showed her how to work the slide, check the chamber, and thumb the safety. Mickey leaned against the wall, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Anne raised the pistol swiftly, instantly shifting her stance into the professional shooting posture, and let loose ten shots in quick succession.

Then she lowered the pistol, setting it on a table. Mickey suppressed a laugh at Buck's expression.

The Rook reeled in the target and everyone gaped at the poor paper. There were five holes in the face, three shots in the heart, and two shots in the groin.

"Argh," Buck whispered. "That's cold."

Anne grinned, reloaded the pistol quickly and efficiently, thumbed the safety, and handed it to the Rook, who smiled softly as he took it.

"Now _this _is something I want to see," Mickey said. "How far back do you want the target?"

"I'll tell you when to stop," the Rook whispered. The chain rattled again, the target zooming into the blackness. It kept going and going and going until it banged against the far wall.

"There's no bloody way-" but Buck was cut off with five sharp shots. When the noise died away, it was replaced with the chain rattling back again.

As the white ghostly shape loomed into view, it became clear the Rookie had effectively put a smiley face on the target.

* * *

**_Sorry this was so short. Thanks to 'Zilla for the idea!_**


	9. Dark as the Devil

**Dudes, I'm sorry about the hold up. I have a new fic planned and I haven't had time to write any humorous one-shots. So I'll give you this, something I've written a while back for someone else, to stem the flow. I'm temporarily placing 'You Did What With Halo?' into 'completed' until further notice. Yes, this is the dreaded Author's Note.**

**Deepest apologies. Sorry, 'Zilla, that I couldn't complete your requests.  
**

Dark as the devil himself, the night was shrouded with a blanket of clouds and coated in a nauseating feeling of foreboding that kept my gut wretched in marvelous corkscrews. Nothing sang, nothing chirped, no one dared to move – lest they disturb the night's apprehensive aura.

Personally, I would've kept to the gloom of the overhanging ledge, silently veiled amongst the dripping flora, until dawn spread her bleeding fingers across the terra firma. The hours of darkness were young, and god knew I could hold out till sunrise, but there's this funny thing called a 'superior officer' who is currently watching my heels to make sure I get the mission done.

Well then.

I reluctantly disengaged myself from the coagulated shadows and crept onward through Africa's Amazon jungle, where I'd grown used to the constant cacophony of beasts deafening the ears. But now, in the mantle of dusk, there was only the silence worthy of a tomb. As I moved from tree to tree, keeping in the cover of blackness, I listened for those dissimilar noises that marked the presence of Covie forces.

…_The rasping breath of a Unngoy as it sucked methane through breathing apparatus. The occasional crackle of Jiralhanae power armor; I could spot the luminous slits of the armor's articulation points, some ten feet ahead of me. There was a sizzle as a Kigyar's crimson shield slid across a broad-leafed fern, briefly sparking when it struck a stone. And, if I were so unlucky, the scratching noise I was hearing could be Mgalekgolo spines on the surface of a cave hidden from view_. I didn't have the mayhem to deal with _that _kind of meat, so I stuck to the shadows and stayed quiet.

I chinned a switch on my helmet and my surroundings were suddenly outlined in a sort of sepia color. Turning to where the noises were coming from, I saw the Covies were now traced in a virulent red. I could easily spot four Grunts sleeping, sails prominent in the air whilst their heads were tucked between their knees. A Brute Captain leaned against a boulder, head bobbing in fiercely-resisted slumber. I could pick out the twin Hunters in their cave, spiny ridges stabbing the air like a crop of nettles. Hard to tell if those can o' worms were napping.

What disturbed me were the two Brutes outlined in gold.

Typically, when the enemy was unmarked with the correct color, it spelled disaster. Was it because my VISR was ineffective? Was it some new Covenant trick? Or, most likely, it meant they had that annoying power armor specifically designed to enable a degree of invisibility; essentially, the Covenant police force with grayish-black armor (when you could see 'em). I'd seen the same sneaky getup on the Elites a while back; except then, they had generators that gave off one hell of a heat signature.

These Brutes weren't as easy to find without the VISR; usually you found the apes just prior to your head being abruptly ripped from your shoulders. The new suit gave off virtually no thermal indicators… plus, these particular apes were wide-awake and armed with Incendiary Grenades. The recipe for my death. Crème brulee, Spartan-style.

One Brute turned and looked directly at me, his forehead glimmering like the Third Eye. The simple laser mounted in the forehead had always scared the willies out of me, even though it was simply the alien-version of a laser-pointer. It felt like he could see me, but I doubted it. I was well hidden; in my eyes at least. See if that mattered to mongo over there.

My MJOLNIR VI armor had been redesigned to look like the bastard child of an ODST drop suit and the Spartan Scout armor. It had the VISR getup and black cameo, like the ODST suit and, like the Scout armor, had plating reduced at the joints to allow for easier maneuverability. The articulation points were covered to avoid being spotted. My suit in particular was painted in leaf-shaped, dappled gray designs. With my mottled armor and disturbingly silent ways, I was preferable in jungle ops.

But taking on this rather heavily armed pack was suicide. Even my ego told me to hold on a sec.

Leaving a few moments to make sure they hadn't spotted me, I retreated a safe distance to make contact with the boss. I knew something would probably go wrong regarding this particular encounter (hell, one of the freaks might hear me or smell me or something) so I made sure I was _safely_ distant.

There were brief buzzes as I searched for the correct channel. When I found it, I nearly jumped out of my skin when he started talking.

"Number One? Is that you?"

I reflexively checked my scanner for movement. Finding none, I replied, "Yes, sir. I've called regarding this mission."

There was a shuffle of papers and a sniff. "Ah yes. Infiltrate Jungle-Base-34's perimeter and search for any survivors. Is there a problem involved in which you cannot handle?"

His amiable voice ended with a sort of sarcastic tone that had my ego rolling up her sleeves. I hate to be stereotypical, but the Boss was Section-3 and thus never had much respect going for him (in my thoughts at least). I could picture him looking down his nose at me as if I were a stain on his otherwise spot-free over-priced suit. Or maybe I was that cowlick on the crown of his head that simply refused to be suppressed. You never know with the Boss.

"Yes," I said, struggling to keep the irritation out of my voice. "I don't have sufficient armor or weapons to deal with this number of adversaries."

"It's a stealth mission, One. You aren't waging war with these stragglers."

I resisted the overpowering urge to respond to that ridiculous statement. _No sir, we aren't at war with these aliens. I'm just coming by to ask for some freaking tea. And maybe after that we can eat cookie dough and talk about boys_. _But no, not war. No sirree._

"Boss, I'm simply requesting some extra guns around here…"

He sighed explosively, the noise coming in loud over my COM. I found myself wishing I'd never hailed the prat.

"Just get in, get out. I can't send you reinforcements because this isn't exactly a op that'll be praised in the papers. Get my drift? So suck it up and get your ass back on the line." And with that, the channel delved back into white noise.

"I believe he just hung up on me," I said to no one in particular. I switched off the radio and steeled myself for sneaking through the patrol. Of course, I could always just go around the circus, but crashing around in the jungle in the dead of night was the ideal way to ask for conflict. On my way back, I'd have a crew of civvies on my tail. I had to take out the pack.

And for all this trouble, I wouldn't even get the key to the city, or the free dinners, or even a gift card. Life is rough all over (even when you're a Spartan with a capital 'S').

These 'stragglers' were all that remained of the Earth-bound Covenant forces. For the past few months, my job had been to clear out the buggers in designated sectors. Hey, I'm not complaining about my job – I get to run around with a gun and shoot things. That's my trade, and I don't mind it. But when some unnamed ONI pest 'hires' me for an op, I kind of want to know what I'm being dragged into. Apparently this had been too much to ask for, and I was dumped five miles from my current position with nothing but a silenced submachine gun, a silenced pistol, and no snacks to speak of. I'd been told to find the FUBAR base, save the screaming civvies, and haul ass to the rally point.

All by my lonesome.

I shouldered my silenced SMG and cursed the Boss under my breath. I neared the camp and stayed hidden for a few minutes just to make sure no one had gotten excited since I'd left. Then I headed for the Hunters, avoiding the sleeping Brute.

I unsheathed my combat knife, the sharp edge glinting in Luna's light. For a moment I realized this was one of the few ops not situated on an alien planet. If I were to die, it would be on Earth, and not some Planet X.

One hell of a consolation.

I'd never tried this before. Knifing a Hunter, I mean. I've sniped them. I've set them on fire. Hell, I tricked one into falling off a cliff Looney Tunes-style. But this was new. So I prayed to whatever god was listening and snuck into the cave. I had to edge around Hunter Numero Uno and avoid the shield. Once behind him, I looked for his buddy and kept my eye on him.

I raised the knife and slashed vertically across the exposed back. Titian gore splattered across my black armor as the assemblage of worms squealed and died. Yet the Hunter unexpectedly keeled over (literally) and died.

Adrenaline making me punchy, I turned and ran into the depths of the cave, which only went back fourteen feet. I knelt in the shadows cast by a boulder and watched as the other Hunter saw his dead brother, keening loudly. He hadn't spotted me though, so I was still in the clear…

And bright orange. I looked like a freaking road sign.

I tried desperately to wipe it off, but succeeded in only getting it on my gloves. The blood was slick and oily, a bright fluorescent orange that glowed in the dark. I cleaned my knife off on the sparse grass back here. I smirked when I saw the grass turn a lovely carroty color.

I peered through the darkness (VISR helping plenty) and watched the spectacle: the Grunts were absent, the Brute Captain still asleep. A haunting shifting of light as the cloaked apes moved about. The Hunter stood over his brother's body and expressed a guttural growl, hefting his massive arm-mounted plasma cannon threateningly. He flexed his shield, a quarter-meter thick slab of metal, and assumed a stance I'd seen oh so many times before. Enough times to know this Hunter was pissed.

He still didn't see me though. I stayed deadly still, feeling those hundreds of sensory organs in the worms scan my position. You don't know what it's like; to feel the eyes of the enemy on you, but he doesn't notice you. Kind of like a really bad surprise party.

Yeah. Surprise.

I waited with my back against the boulder, waiting for the commotion to die down. Soon silence ruled the bloody court, and I made for the front of the cave…

Only to notice the significant lack of a second Hunter.

How the hell do they move that fast? And how do you hide a Hunter?

I also realized the invisible Brutes were gone. That's a silly statement. Of course they were gone – ooh my. Guarding the cave's exit were the Brutes, Maulers at ready. They saw me, I saw them, and they, well, aimed the Maulers at me and I responded accordingly:

I muttered a rather colorful curse and run away into cave.

The Covie-equivalent of a shotgun was handheld and packed one helluva punch, so I was in no rush to experience it. I retreated to my boulder again and resumed hiding. It seemed inevitable, so I waited for them to come in after me.

The first Brute rushed in almost immediately, and would have passed me, if I hadn't jumped and tackled him. I knifed him in the neck then rolled and hefted the corpse as a shield – just in time, too – when I felt a kick. I figured it was the other Brute firing at me. Running backwards suddenly (and probably resembling a demented turtle) I tossed my shield off. The body landed on the Brute who, for a moment, was distracted as he threw the cadaver aside.

"Hey, buddy," I whispered while I came up close. I was eye-to-eye with him when I promptly stabbed the beast through the throat. There was a sickly crack and the angry red eyes lost their light. I riffled through their pockets and found a few incendiary grenades. Huzzah.

Two bodies laid at my feet, when with a deep-throated roar, it became rather obvious that I'd woken up the patrol.

I whipped to face the Brute Captain in time to see him do this weird sumo-wrestler thing and go berserk. This was not a totally new concept, but it still scared the stuffing out of me every time. I mean, here's this gazillion pound beast of a sasquatch running at me with the full intent to cause bodily harm. Who on God's green Earth feels the immediate need to find out the color of her insides?

The armored alien charged me and I hardly knew what to do except stick him with a recently-acquired fire grenade and watch him burn. I didn't feel like smelling burning Bravo Kilo, so I left the cave, making for the sails poking out of the leaves like mushrooms. Or gremlins.

Then those 'gremlins' popped up with dramatic cries of 'Ooh' and 'Aah'.

"Yeah, I'm human," I said, kicking the first one in the face. The thing's mask flew off into the bushes and he flailed around a bit before running into a tree and dying from all this Earthly oxygen. I stabbed two more and was left with the last one, who looked at me and squeaked. He fumbled for his plasma pistol, but before he could shoot me I deftly unsheathed my M6C/SOCOM (ah, scope and loveliness) and pegged him in the head.

"No, I didn't forget you either," I said out loud, before whipping about and shooting the fleeing Jackal, already a few yards out. The bullet caught his head and he flipped head over heels. His useless shield extinguished and the clearing was awash with clear, clean, pallid Moon light. Natural.

I noticed the Hunter was no where to be found. No freaky spines sticking out of the foliage, no throaty growls, no ominous humming noise as the trademark plasma cannon warmed. He was gone. Hopefully, I wouldn't have to run into him again.

I was left alone in the slight clearing, splashed in fluorescent orange and blue. A spray of dark Brute blood coated the left side of my visor. I wasn't sweating (thank you, MJOLNIR makers) but the adrenaline had me shaking in erratic pulsations.

I imagined I would make an ideal painting – lonesome, armored soldier painted with ethereal light, standing amidst the still bodies of her enemies, gazing at the night sky – scratch that. Too pretty for death. Look at me, glorifying war. Huh.

I noticed the creatures of night were chirping again. _Fancy that,_ I thought. _Only when the space bugs leave do the real ones come out.

* * *

_

At one hundred hours I'd reached the (remains of) Jungle-Base-34. Great craters marked where grenades had gone off. There were claw prints and bits of flesh that looked unnervingly Caucasian. Yellow hard hats lay discarded, some of which hung from tree branches, almost sulking in manner. Some of the hats still had the heads inside.

I avoided those.

I noticed a significant lack of cartridge shells and alien bodies. I saw men pegged to the walls by gray spikes like they were insects in a frame. A woman appeared to have been crawling her way across the jungle floor when she'd been stepped on; a boot print the size of my head imprinted on her lower abdomen. It looked like she'd exploded.

There couldn't have been more than fifteen total civilian technicians here.

Not that any of the corpses were recognizable.

When I scanned the area, the VISR system picked up nothing. This area was cold, dead, and abandoned. The force that had come through here hadn't necessarily been formidable, but rather the humans had been unprepared. Only a few sonic grenades and maybe a pistol or two. This place had been asking for it. What made me nervous was the fact I hadn't run into that force. I'd send a Alpha-priority alert to ONI to keep an eye on this sector.

Jungle-Base-34 had sent a message to the central ONI orbital base some two days ago, basically stating the obvious: Covenant on Earth, place overrun, yada yada yada. What struck the Boss as funky was the fact the Brutes had targeted 34, but for what we didn't know. So he sent me, Miss 'Hired-Gun', to scout it out. I wasn't here on anyone else's orders except his little circle, so I couldn't hope for backup or even for someone to come pick up my body.

So I had to find anyone here who had survived (and by the looks of it, no one had) and boot their butts back into civilization where ONI could chew them out.

But even as I searched the busted duracrete buildings, climbed over mounds of composite stone and the like, I didn't find anything. Brutes aren't well-known for their mercy devices, so it didn't surprise me.

So, needless to say, I was a little more than miffed when I ran into a civilian.

The technician was missing a leg. His chest looked like it'd been scooped out with a melon-baller. He had his back against the wall in what looked to be the shower area. Several of the showers were still running, so his blood mingled with the water and created a chilling, horror-movie spectacle. He was holding a knife and was…

…Sawing off his fingers.

I splashed toward him, ripping the knife out of his bloody hands and tossing it away. I looked about for means of wrapping his hands when I noticed the extent of his injuries and figured he wouldn't make it.

One leg had been ripped off at the knee, though the wound was torn in such a way it almost looked like it'd been chewed on. Something had gauged into his chest and scooped out the gooey center. Like a nougat chocolate-

Oh my god, I'm describing a bleeding man like candy.

"They eated them," the man said in poor speech. He was in so much pain he couldn't form complete sentences. "Eaten and chewed on and screaming."

"Sir, I'll get you out of here…" I said gently, but I don't think he heard me. He was staring past me. I followed his eyes and saw streaks of bloody handprints on the tiled walls. There'd definitely been a struggle here – short-lived, though it may be - and it resembled a scene where the killer whales played with their food before they skinned th-

Argh.

"No no no… before my friend died, he… they were biting off his fingers, one at a time and laughing. They laughed at him."

Then he laughed violently. He cackled in pain and the chest cavity splashed blood across my chest. It didn't glow and it didn't sluice off me like alien blood. It wasn't orange, it wasn't blue, it wasn't purple. It was crimson. It was human.

"I want him to have his fingers again," he said between giggles. "So I'll give him mine."

And he reached out to my chest armor, grasped my knife, and even as I reached out to stop him, he sliced off the remaining fingers on the opposite hand in one, swift strike. Apparently this was too much, because soon afterwards he stopped moving.

Just… stopped. His eyes were wide and unblinking.

The eyes were green and oddly detached, staring through me. I suppose this is what eyes belonging to a dead man are supposed to look like.

I sighed and stood up. Base 34 looked like it was, and always had been, an outhouse. Worth nothing, hiding nothing. This whole night had been a bitch and I was walking home empty handed. Somewhere across Africa some other unlucky bastard was fighting his way through hell and doing something about ass-end of this 'fight'. 'Fight' with a capital F.

Then, to top off the whole bloody cake, I heard the distinct hum of a Hunter's plasma cannon.

"Damn," I muttered, running out of the shower rooms and into the jungle clearing. There was an explosion and sharp bits of tile peppered my shield, vaporizing on impact. I ducked and rolled, just in time too – super-heated plasma blasted just over my head, raising the MJOLNIR suit's internal temperature a few degrees. I felt the hair on my scalp stand on end and my skin blistered.

I came back up again, bringing my SMG to bear and cursing the Boss under my breath. I thumbed the safety and pulled the trigger; the barrage of bullets impacted on the metal shield the Hunter had quickly brought up. I stopped firing and the behemoth lumbered out of the ruined shower station, ceramic crunching under his boots. The second time he fired, it was a fleeting burst of energy that I narrowly dodged. I felt the armor on my calf melt slightly and fuse together, deformed.

I returned fire, still moving. I reloaded as I ducked a third burst. The lime green plasma impacted on the ancient tree behind me, burning halfway through the trunk. The poor tree groaned and split, falling through the air toward me. I screamed as I watched Archimedes's first law make itself painfully known; the unrestrained tree moved in slow motion, in a achingly sluggish arc, to the ground.

The Hunter's squat head angled upward to watch the tree, the tree that was at least a thousand years old (and thus very _very_ thick) topple directly on him. The once-formidable alien was squashed beneath the tree. The tree shook violently on impact; the crushed alien was splattered like, well, a worm.

Orange blood drenched the bark and the surrounding dirt. I watched the leaves on the tree shake violently as dozens of animals escaped the ruin; the resounding explosive noise of the impact blasted through the jungle. Birds flitted through the air, chirping in fear.

For a few moments I stood and blessed Lady Luck. I blinked repeatedly and gulped. The tail-end of shock kicked in and I fell to my knees. Here I was, alone in the jungle again. With only shattered bits of tile and a flattened corpse and the first light of morning.

"And I get the outhouse."

My voice spread around the clearing and drifted off, mocking the earlier clamor of the tree. I called the Boss, told him the news, then left to watch dawn spread her bloody fingers across the good ol' terra firma.

I turned my back on the warming skies, rose from my knees, and trekked to the rally point.


	10. Walk it Off

**Walk It Off**

"So then, it was really weird, because I was half-way through the wall. It was really weird. Out-of-body, dingo-ate-my-baby weird. You know?"

"Well, yes, I understand. That's a weird glitch and all, but did you see that last Cortana-bit? I turned _red_. That's scary weird."

John raised the battle rifle and pegged a Grunt toddling out from behind corner. The Grunt _eeped!_ and, curiously enough, exploded with confetti and, somewhere in the distance, children screamed excitedly. John stopped and stared at the corpse with poorly hidden confusion. He toed the body curiously, waiting for it to scream again. "You saw that, right?" he asked slowly.

"…yes. Looks like the guy at the controller has another silver Skull on," replied Cortana. "Um, 'Grunt Birthday Party'?"

"I assume the title is self-explanatory?"

"Quite."

His head tilted. "You know, I kind of want to find another Grunt."

"It is your job."

"Don't I know it."

The man-made tunnel gave way to the open lake bottom of the harbor. The skies were troubled and conflicted; while clean blue reigned the east, a funnel-shaped storm dominated the sky over what appeared to be a futuristic Eiffel Tower. Lightning flashed and Covenant cruisers waded through the stagnant air like ducks through oil, cirmunavigating what was presumably the Portal's mass generator. This was at least the twentieth run through the level _The Storm_ and everything else had become anticipated. John shouldered his rifle and listened for the – oh, there it was: the blast from the AA gun as it shot down UNSC aircraft. He had to do something about that, as he recalled.

"Well, another boring run. You know, this level is getting boring. The User has a terrible sense of fun," he murmured.

"I have to agree," said Cortana. "It can't be helped I suppose."

There was a roar behind them as a unwieldy Warthog slid to a stop behind them. John jumped out of the way in time to avoid a sizzling rubber tire running over his foot. "Hey Chief!" cried a Marine, his Australian accent none too obvious. "Want a ride?"

"_How many times do I have to tell you?_" John yelled. "I don't want a ride!" The Marine in turn grinned broadly, swerved to the right backwards, and with a squeal of tires, shot off down the boat ramp and into the lake bed. As he raced away he shouted, "Good one, mate!"

"That's the thing about this whole thing," Cortana mused. "We, as main characters, are graced with conscious thought and decisions, however restricted they are. And yet Beta AIs, like that Marine, are stuck with the same dialogue on a cycle!"

John waited a beat before replying, "I'm not arguing with it."

"Me either."

"Chief!" cried another Marine. There was a muted roar this time. It was a Mongoose, one of which John failed to avoid. His knees were knocked from under him and he tumbled over the hood, falling over it and landing on his back. Head against a front wheel, he sighed.

"This always happens to me."

"It's a dangerous life to live!"

"Want a ride?" asked the Marine.

"NO!"

The Marine promptly swerved away. As he left, the tire glanced off John's helmet, leaving a ugly black skid mark on the paint. He sighed and looked up at the sky. "Ergh. I do not like this."

"Walk it off, silly."

**If this seems strange to you, go check out **_**Once More, With Feeling**_**. It should make sense.**


	11. Charlie Foxtrot

"Whoa, hold on: what did you just say?"

Edward Buck slowed to a stop, looking about for the mysterious voice. Finding no origin he began to jog again until the voice halted him.

"Hold on, Gunny. What did you just say?" The voice was feminine and astonished. He still couldn't see where it was coming from.

"Hello?" he called aloud. His voice echoed in the jungle canyon.

"Yes, up here," replied the voice, irritated. He looked up and saw a Marine perched in one of the native trees, her camo armor doing her well. The only human bit about her was her angular, pale face peeking out from the swathes of camo padding. Extending out from her form was the telltale sniper's rifle. He tilted his head.

"What?"

"What did you just say?"

"Uh, 'we're heading for a real charlie foxtrot situation'?"

"That's what I thought you said." The female Marine shedded her camo and jumped down from the tree, landing before him. She was easily taller than him, with light blond hair pulled into a ponytail. "You ODSTs are all the same. Cursing up a storm like big kids."

Buck eyed her skeptically. "And _you've _never cursed."

"Only when appropriate."

He rolled his eyes. "Dear lord," he murmured. "Look, I've really got to get going now. If you can point the way where that crashed Pelican went, I'd be more than grateful – wait, what are you doing?"

She'd come and exchanged her rifle for his battle rifle and was now examining it with an expert eye. "Coming with you," she said stoutly. "I'll take point, follow up behind."

"Wuh-what? No-"

But she was already off, loping easily through the woods.

* * *

Smoke rose in steady column from the treescape, clearly marking where the Pelican was down. It had taken all day by foot but Buck wasn't complaining. His female companion wasn't all too chatty, but my my, was she fine to look at.

"Stop staring at my ass, jerk," she said randomly. Which turned out not to be so arbitrary when Buck looked away sharply. She felt a ghost of a smile hover about her features but refused to submit to this ODST.

Another hour passed and the had come across the crash site. A group of inept Marines were gathered around it, staring at the debris with all the intention of staying right where they were. When they saw the woman come jogging up to them, they stood up in a rush and cheered.

"Yeah yeah!" applauded one Marine, "Dare will get us through!"

"Have you had any contact with the enemy?" The woman, Dare, asked.

"No ma'am. Been holding tight since the crash. Pilot dead on impact."

"Alright; I'll see if I can get hold of one of the flyboys. Someone find me a radio…"

As Dare stalked away, and Buck watched her leave, a fellow ODST edged up to him. His helmet was missing and he was smiling toothily. "Got to hang with Dare, huh? Lucky. She won't work with any of us."

Buck looked up at the Reach skies, alive with zipping aircraft and deadly plasma bolts, and laughed bitterly. "Can't say she was working with me, exactly."

"You're still a lucky guy, Buck. Not to mention she's Oni, too."

Buck groaned and face-palmed. "Oh, charlie foxtrot…" he muttered.


	12. Quid Pro Quo

"Okay, here's the plan: we know they're in there, right?"

Gravemind's human entity sighed heavily and waved his tentacled-arms about. "I still don't see how this will work," he declared. "Or why it's absolutely necessary. Honestly, he was separated from his AI companion for weeks while I submitted her to torture. I'm a terrible person! Can't we just let them have time to themselves?"

"No," said Johnson stoutly. "This is the three-hundredth time we've had to go through this level! The least we could do is joke around occasionally."

The tentacle arms were waved in agitation. "Well, okay. Just – fine. That Spark guy isn't in on this, is he?"

"No," Johnson lied. "Now the plan is: it's all quiet in there, so I'm going to delete a Grunt from a different level and stitch him into this one. He'll be confused for a moment, but I'll shoot him and he'll do the whole Birthday Party thing."

"Oh. Wait, how can you do that?"

Johnson grinned broadly. "The beauty of being a Beta-AI, my friend."

"Oh. Okay."

* * *

In another room, the Master Chief knelt beside the pedestal and murmured, "You know me. When I make a promise…"

The limp form of the AI Cortana struggled to rise and look into the golden visor. She smiled slightly when she realized the Spartan was _not _an apparition. "…You keep it," she finished. "I _do _know how to pick them."

"Lucky me," he replied wearily. "Do you still have it?"

"Back to business, huh?" she whispered. "The Activation Index from the first Halo ring. A little souvenir I held onto, just in case." She looked off into the distance in thought. The Spartan's head followed her eyes.

"Got an escape plan?" she asked, her voice daring.

"Brrumph- YAYAYAYA!"

"Sweet Jesus!" screamed Cortana, her pale form jumping away from the cheering. "What the hell?"

"Johnson!" barked John. "Come on, man. We were having a moment!"

Eerie laughter echoed in the chamber as the hidden Johnson expressed his lack of regret. "Well carry on, then. Honestly, I was afraid you two were going to start kissing!" He laughed long and hard at the prospect, but the sounds soon tapered off as the Beta disappeared.

John sighed and held out the chip for Cortana. He completed the cutscene, but even the blind wouldn't have missed the knowing glance they sent each other, and even though the inpentrable glass visor was a stone mask, it could not be said John didn't smile gently.

**A/N: Not exactly your plans, Kire. But I hope you liked the ending.**


	13. Know Your Role

Two Alpha-AIs, each self-conscious of their own personal needs, were led through the gloomy concrete halls of the UNSC underground base. Gamma-AIs littered the ground, moaning and groaning in pain, some cradling broken arms, others sporting bloodied rags like gorey merit badges. Surrounding the two Alphas were three Betas, casually boxing them in and forcing them further down the halls. One Beta, a Sergeant A.J. Johnson, moved his cigar from one side of his mouth to the opposite. A second Beta wore the blue clothes marked with her rank: Commander Miranda Keyes. The last Beta, a class A variety, stood at an easy eight feet tall; The Arbiter brought up the rear and watched the Alphas intently.

Switching to a private COMM made Cortana feel exceptionally bookish. "What's with this new thing?" she whispered into the Spartan's ear. "Is it truly necessary to act out this whole prisoner thing? I feel like I'm in _The Green Mile_."

The Spartan shrugged and cast a sidelong look at Miranda. The Commander faced stoically forward, her mouth moving as she said her words of the cutscene. Suddenly, a gurney came whizzing around the corner, pushed by a jump-happy ODST. John leaped out of the way and gaped as the patient on the gurney squealed and threw his hands up in the air, screaming, "WHEEEE GO FASTER, GO FASTER!"

"This is what happens when the User doesn't watch the cutscenes," John said jadedly. "You've got these guys who totally abuse the story."

"Well, this is only the third time the User's played this level. I'd get bored of this too."

"I'm already bored."

"Ooh- look out, Miranda's talking."

John snapped to attention and Miranda's voice filtered through his helmet. They stood before a giant screen filled with Lord Hood's face. He was talking too. John sighed explosively and tuned it out. "Oh look," he said. "Here comes self-arrogant prat."

The lights were killed, of course, and the Prophet of Truth appeared. He nodded respectively at the present company. "Miranda, Johnson-" He paused. "-Arbiter. Oh, and the Demon."

"I don't like how he says my name."

"And I'm being ignored!" pointed out Cortana.

"Hush hush."

The Prophet continued, ignorant of the weary exchange. "The Ark and the Eiffel Tower-shaped Dreadnought will allow our passage to the Great Journey. You will all burn. BURN, B-U-R-N."

"He's actually not that far from the real guy," mused Cortana.

Then the lights were replaced by solid red ones, giving everyone a demonic look. It was a particularly dramatic expression.

"So… what now?" asked Cortana.

The two Alphas waited for something to happen. Nothing did. John glanced about and noticed Miranda's mouth was agape and Johnson looked angry (which, really). One of the Marines was in the midst of a rather awkward hygienic display, and stuck there, as the game had glitched and frozen them all.

"This is going to be a long day…"


	14. Gift With Purchase

It wasn't large; about the size of a toaster, and swathed in bright red wrapping paper. Perfectly cube-shaped and topped off with a pink bow. He tossed it from one hand to another, examining it with something approaching curiosity. When one is the last Spartan (or a mass of complex coding shaped like the last Spartan) you learn to be paranoid, because more often than not, you would be killed. And the thing about Halo: when you died, you _came back_. This was not an easily accepted principle, at first. Any sane, self-knowledgeable entity does not easily accept the prospect that once dying a rather painless death you simply come back, like some cruelly entertaining roller coaster. So the possibility this cheerful anomaly, this irregularity in coding, was bad for him, was too high for him to ignore.

"Open it," urged Cortana.

He looked at it doubtfully. "No. I don't know where it is from." He was leaning against a concrete structure by the river, on his way to save Johnson. He was mopping up a few stray Grunts when he'd stumbled over what he'd assumed had been a Grunt's sail – it was the right color and tone, after all – and picked it up to stare at it in confusion.

"I want to see where it's from," Cortana said. "Please? What's the worse that could happen?"

He rolled his eyes. "It could be a bomb. And by unraveling that bow, I could be pulling the wire and killing myself."

Cortana, by this point, was getting spazzy, mainly because this was the hundredth run through the level _Sierra 117_ and at least the fifth time in a row. When she was forced to watch the world through John's eyes (and not intervene, as she wasn't part of the story yet) over and over again, she had taken to playing 'I, Spy'. Needless to say, this restless ruse had worked its charm on John: he was beginning to feel the same prerequisite sensation. He fingers started to tingle with the need to open the box.

"Please?" asked Cortana.

Part of him wondered why he didn't open it immediately. Another part told the opposite part to shut up, it didn't have an instinct skills. "We could at least give it to someone else. And have them open it," he suggested. He imagined Cortana pacing around, considering this option. His imagination: She nodded resolutely.

"Alright. It's a plan."

* * *

Simsi had seen the Demon coming and, as his programming commanded, he unhooked his plasma pistol. He aimed it at the nearing Spartan and loosed a few brilliant green bolts. Many of them missed. Then the Demon threw something at him and Simsi ran, screaming desperate cries of _Grenade! Grenade!_ When an explosion did not follow suit, he began to wonder.

He moved slowly toward the object in question, still wary. It was squarish and brightly colored. He had only seen such cheerfulness at celebrations, and his common sense was immediately disarmed. He made a beeline toward the box and picked it up.

It was hard and parts of the bright skin came away at his claws. When he tossed it on the jungle floor it did not roll; when he threw it in the air, it landed flat. It was a curious object indeed.

He tugged at the pink bow and it loosened. With the suddenness of an eager children opening a present, he pulled the bow away. Nothing happened.

The bright skin crackled as it fell away from the brown, soft interior. Simsi opened the brown interior and found another surprise inside.

A cylindrical can, sparkly as gold in the sun.

He squealed as he played with the can, his fear of the Demon diminishing. Such a wonderful object, he decided, and tried to find some of his friends. By this point, the Gamma-AI had progressed past his programming and had trouble with his individual thinking habits.

He couldn't find his friends. So he decided to play with the can himself. He tried opening it and discovered the top was loose. He tugged it open and _snakes popped out_ into the air! Simsi screamed in surprise and his coding immediately recognized the classic 'snakes-in-a-can' as a grenade. Simsi dove for cover. The fabric snakes fell through the air and confetti littered the forest floor. Simsi's coding was now thoroughly confused: it assumed the snakes-in-a-can was actually a grenade. Simsi fell flat on his face, for all intents and purposes, dead.

* * *

From around the bend, watching with their mouths agape, Cortana and John snorted heavily. John stifled his laughter while Cortana went full-board, chuckling quaintly.

"There's your answer," Cortana replied. "Your 'bomb' was a snake-in-a-can."

"I will never forget that."

Cortana's laughter died away. "Now, who did this?"

"Just another glitch in the game."

* * *

Peeking from a cave formed by rocks, the Arbiter waited for the inevitable scream. When hearing only silence and Earthen insects, the Arbiter assumed his prank went unnoticed. He would relate all this to Johnson and ask for any suggestions.

Then he heard something rare: a Spartan laughing.


	15. The Camera and the Coffee

"_Give me back my camera, jackass!_"

Catherine Halsey peered over the rim of her coffee cup nonchalantly. She smiled behind the ceramic at the comical spectacle. A young woman jumped up and down, each leap coming with a wild swing of the arms in a futile attempt to retrieve her camera, held just high enough she couldn't reach it. The man with the camera was tall enough he could appear standing up while leaning against the wall and easily kept the camera swinging high above her head. With a smirk, Catherine noted that though his smiled coldly, his eyes sparkled. He was not doing this out of cruelty.

The woman stomped her foot on the concrete sidewalk angrily, short black hair swinging about her chin. "I wasn't doing anything wrong!" she protested. She stood akimbo and defiantly stared down the man.

"Look, lady. You know the rules." He shrugged. "No photography around the ONI building." He handed her the camera kindly and relaxed against the wall, hands in his pockets. The woman checked the film in her camera, made sure the lenses weren't cracked, then raised her eyes slowly, skeptically. From her bench, Catherine mirrored the man's movements and relaxed to watch the show.

"Sir, is there _anything _wrong with taking pictures of that beautiful plant?"

All heads turned to look at the singular faux tree sitting pathetically in its pot, in the foyer of the ONI building. Catherine recalled complaints that the building was too 'drab'. The easiest solution in war, in response to comfort necessities, was a fake tree. The man looked back at the woman who was still staring at him, obviously a bit pissed about her camera stealage.

"Yes. That its location is inside a government-protected structure." He was still smiling gently. Catherine noticed now that he wore a black shirt with a white emblem on the sleeve; a subtle enough signal that he was an undercover security officer. He crossed his legs and became the perfect posterchild of calm. "Just don't do it again-"

He was violently interrupted by a scream of terror.

Immediately he took the woman by the arm and made for the ONI building. The building was locked down (it was still early) and he didn't hesitate a second before leading his shoulder through the glass doors and shattering them simultaneously. His head shifted twice - once to make sure the woman was safe, a second time to lock eyes with Halsey. The scientist was already racing down the sidewalk to the building when a second scream sounded, and this one she recognized.

A Banshee flier streaked overhead in a blur of lavender and scarab-shell iridescent, lobbing a ball of sizzling green plasma at her. She dove sideways (momentarily proud with herself for thinking 'on her feet') propelled and thrown forward by the blast. She rolled and stumbled to her feet, following inertia in a wild goose chase through the doors. She tumbled into the arms of the man. A few precious seconds were spent regaining conscious, not instinctual, thought; after a minute, her breathing had settled and she fixed her jacket promptly and professionally. The other woman leaned against the farthest wall, ironically in the leaves of the fake tree, deathly silent and clutching her head. The man saw this and reacted instantly.

"Glass?" she asked quietly as he took her head in his hands.

"Nought but a scratch," he joked gently. He combed her hair back softly, realized what he was doing, and retreated quickly. "We have to get the resident AI online. He won't have woken up until business hours, but I might be able to boot him up."

The officer searched the walls for a hidden panel, feeling the walls with anxious fingertips. The woman felt her head, at the spot he had touched her, gently as if worried his touch would fade. Catherine observed her quietly.

"Here we go." There was a beep and a clacking noise as a panel slid away at his fingers. A glowing screen appeared against the wall and a smiling face appeared, plain and laughably simple.

"_Welcome to ONI Public Relations. Please state your name and purpose_." The AI's voice was both chipper and emotionless at the same time. Catherine came up behind the man and watched as he tried to override the protocols. The other woman came to her side and watched blankly.

Outside, people screamed in terror as numerous Banshees made smooth and effortless passes over the streets.

"Dammit!" shouted the man angrily, pounding the wall viciously. "Won't let me in. The AI's glitching."

"There must be a data jammer somewhere," put in Catherine. Then she fell silent, not bothering to offer up anything else. The man looked at her expectantly. She looked at him with hooded eyes, making sure to gaze just past his ear...

The other woman suddenly stepped in, moving Catherine aside gently. She tapped at the panel quickly and the AI beeped happily as the code was accepted. "You just had to override the camera protocol. If it can't detect the Covenant, it won't glitch up."

The man looked at the woman with new respect. Catherine smiled.

"_Communications open. Have a nice day_."

The woman grinned broadly and stuck out a hand to the officer, eager to be polite even in the current environment. "Hi," she said pleasantly. "My name is Cor Anne." The man returned the gesture and they shook hands.

"I'm Jonathan. And I'm not at liberty to exchange last names." With a jerk of his head, he indicated the panel. "Nice work with the glitch. That was pretty fantastic. You're-"

"Don't say it," she said jokingly, holding up her index finger.

"You're-"

"I'm serious."

"-_Glitchtastic_."

**A/N: Heh.**


	16. Yeah, You Can't Cook

**C is for Cook. Like from the woman who can't. Prompts by Kireteiru. Thanks, Kire.  
**

"_You're _teaching _me _how to cook."

"Look, you're hungry, we're pinned down, this is a restaurant. Do you want to eat or what?"

"You're an A.I."

"Nice."

He stopped stirring and waved the spoon, laden with a viscous flour mixture, at his helmet, where Cortana's hologram paced. She frowned at the spoon-waving and the Chief scowled back. Then he began to stir again, fervently. "All I'm saying, is that you're an A.I. and they don't typically eat."

"True. But I'm the one with the recipe. This works."

"And the only way you can even _speak _and _see _me is via my speakers and the mission video taker. And by the way," he added, "delete this as soon as we leave. I don't need this kind of mockery right now."

"I'm still waiting for the punchline here."

"-The punchline being you can't taste. So this could be undercooked and I could die of salmonella or something like that-"

"You worry too much."

"Because being the last Spartan does that to you."

"Because…" Cortana hesitated. How do you counter _that _resolute statement? "Because shut up."

"Oh, real mature."

"Mmph. Are you done stirring yet?"

"Yes."

The foot-high blue avatar stalked with purpose to the bowl and peered over the edge. Knowing it was entirely for show, the Chief lifted his helmet and angled it over the bowl. Cortana shot him a look of skepticism.

"You're idea of elegance is not getting blood on your armor. And yet you've managed to get flour all over your neck, batter behind your ears and on your nose, and are those…?"

"Raisins?"

"_Why are there raisins in your hair?_ There aren't even raisins in the recipe!"

He shrugged disarmingly. "So-so," he said, waving his hand in a so-so fashion.

"Nevermind. Pour it in a pan and put it in the oven. Set it for 450 degrees. Got it?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, mom." He spent twenty minutes searching for the oven. One of the unfortunate comebacks of the SPARTAN program was inadequate knowledge of a kitchenette. He found the oven, ignored the snickering behind him, and set the timer for twenty minutes.

He squinted at the digital clock set into the oven's station.

"This clock is wrong. The clock in the kitchenette is wrong."

He left the bowl in the sink and returned to his helmet, leaning against the counter, effortlessly looking nonchalant.

Cortana stared at him pensively, tapping her chin in thought. "You say 'kitchenette' oddly. It's weird."

"Are you saying I'm weird?" he replied quietly, glancing sideways at her.

"No. When you say 'kitchenette' it just sounds odd coming from a seven-foot-tall man in armor. With a gun strapped to your back."

He shrugged again. "I'm always prepared. Do you hear that?"

"No."

John tilted his head to listen. In the distance there was something making irregular wheezing noises. It sounded like a machine.

* * *

_Minutes later, now pinned behind a building, a block away from the oven. Tee minus 14:12._

"This Scarab is a punk bitch."

"I can't believe you just said that."

"Believe it." He jumped from cover and took a shot at the Elite Major. He managed to sufficiently piss it off and jumped back into cover. "Dammit. I'd kill for a grenade."

"Uh oh. I smell a bad punchline coming..."

At this moment two Grunts, chittering and whistling in their strange alien tongues, came around the corner. Acting on more impulse than training, John kicked one in the knees and fired a short burst into both. They died quietly. And they added blue blood to John's already interesting collection of muck on his armor. "Dammit," he said again.

"Oh look, grenades."

He picked them up. "Ah. Okay."

He threw one into the mass of aliens, his aim slightly off because of the lurching movements of the Scarab. The grenade went off and injured two Elite majors, killing two minors. Just as he was cleaning up the two injured ones, and preparing to descend below deck, something inside his ear began to chirp.

"What the hell is that?"

"Your alarm. The oven just went off."

For an instant, the lurching seasickness he had been feeling evaporated as he remembered his meal back at the restaurant. His head snapped up in the general direction of the oven.

"I think I've got to kill everyone here," he said plainly.

"You're attached to your food too much."

"Mmph."

* * *

"I can't believe it."

"Believe it, Chief. Things like this happen. You just started cooking today."

"But, still. I worked so hard at this. I tried to be so clean about it."

"It's not your fault."

He stared at the charred remains of his precious cake. The oven's clock was inconsistent with the mission timer, and thus had cooked twenty minutes too long. The digital clock was flashing angrily at him and all John could think of was to punch it until it fell apart.

"I still don't know what time it is. I don't think I ever will."

"...I have your mission log right here..."

He waved his hand. "It's not the same."

* * *

"It blew right through us! Fifty-cal, rockets, didn't do a thing."

"Life is tough, Marine," the Chief replied darkly. He was still a bit disappointed about his cooking.

"_Here comes Johnson, Chief. He's brought something with him._"

"A plague?"

"_Brighten up, sunshine._"

"...Where's the rest of your platoon?"

"Wasted, Sarge."

A marine, previously wasting his breath on ways to escape the Scarab and producing no viable solutions, took the opportunity to get a free ride out but didn't realize he was talking to Sergeant Avery Junior Johnson. "-And we will be too, sir, if we don't get the hell outta here-!"

"You hit, marine?" asked Johnson dangerously.

"...No, sir."

"Then listen up! The Chief here-"

He paused.

"Son, why is there flour on your neck?"

* * *

**God, I really didn't like this. Bad punchlines. Beginning was fun, but after that... oh, and the next one will be Reach themed. My jolly good tango partner Emile and Noble-Six. Thanks for the ideas, Kire, I'll finish the rest next update. But I've got a serious block right now. Off to dancing.**

**Anyone heard of _Hadestown_?  
**


	17. Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear

**A/N: Well, I asked my imaginary boyfriend what I should have Emile say at least once in this story. I don't know how it will be received, but I NEEDED to say it at least once in my parody career. So this one is rated T for a dirty joke. And I know it's totally wrong for him to say that and I love the jerk to pieces (he's my tango partner, you know) and I feel really bad but not enough to stop writing it. I'm so messed up... oh yeah, and mucho thank yous to Kire for some prompts mentioned in this one. BAM**

"That's it. I'm contacting Hood about this, _NOW_."

It was a bloody game of Juggernaut between two conflicting teams of opposite colors. John's team, a group of ragtag Spartans and ODSTs, were grouped together behind a small, unfinished structure, speaking quietly amongst themselves. The other team, a collection of Elites and one cynical, depressed Brute, occasionally revealed their location by a rogue explosion or burst of plasma fire.

John sat against the shack with his fingers pressed to his COMM headphones in an attempt to hear the garbled speech better. He waved off Cortana's statement with a grumble.

"We've had this conversation before," he said. "And it's not going to work. Remember when you complained to Halsey about the paintball incident?"

Both members fell quiet as they recalled the event. Cortana had 'marched' up to Doctor Catherine Halsey to protest against the way Spartans were put to work nowadays and was met by full laughter unexpected from the older woman. Cortana was not one to take abuse and embarrassment well, so she simply settled for assailing someone higher up. Apparently, Hood was next on the list. John worried for the poor man.

"That doesn't prove anything," she grumbled.

"Actually, it does."

"Mmph."

John gave up on the COMMs and set aside the earphones. Cortana's hologram disappeared as he replaced his helmet. He sealed it and let his arms fall to his sides. Obviously he was in no mood to do anything else.

Another explosion sent a plume of inky black smoke coiling into the air. The noises were getting gradually closer. Just then, something alien howled in surprise or anger (maybe even both); the noise echoed in the gulch, and just on the other side of the shack by a few yards.

"That sounded like Ika 'Atama," noted Cortana. "That or a sick animal."

"I vote sick animal." He pushed himself off the wall and stood up with a stretch of the limbs. "Alright, team," he said, as he flicked the safety off his paintball gun. "Let's move out."

The Spartans of the group, which consisted of NOBLE team's Jorge, Emile, Kat, and Noble-6 (secretly nicknamed BJ, which stands for 'by Jove' referencing the time she attacked a stealth elite while wearing only a towel) looked at him oddly before getting up. They all stretched, mirroring his movements, checking their weapons and generally getting pumped up for the coming firefight. One of the ODSTs, Major Haloway Tom, kept his ass to the ground while the other ODST, Sergeant Jennifer Pepper, rose to her feet and joined the Spartans.

"Get up, soldier," John said lowly as he approached the man.

As he reflected on the event, some few days later, he supposed he shouldn't have spoken to Major Tom at all. It really wasn't worth the trouble. But now was now and he had no hindsight to judge him. So Major Tom looked up at him then and smiled a very odd, very _weird _smile.

He was about to speak when something large and black approached him from behind.

"Move it, soldier. _Now_."

There is a reason why no one messes with Jorge.

Haloway got up slowly, flashing Jorge a sheepish, boyish smile, and joined up with the Sergeant. John noticed how very small the man was – that, or Sergeant Pepper was really, _really_ tall. He nodded at the larger Spartan, who nodded back, before going to 'rally the troops'.

Cortana laughed. "I think that Spartan just showed _you_ how to move soldiers."

"What? I was doing fine."

"You weren't, and you know it."

He growled a response and was suddenly jumped on by an Elite.

* * *

"This is a waste of time," moaned Tiberius. "Utter waste. I could be doing so much more right now, you don't even realize."

"_DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN, WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP!_"

"….No."

Thel silently screamed at the uncooperative Brute, but he seemed not to notice. Thel considered for several long minutes, while his blood pressure went down, many ways to kill Tiberius. He simply could not take another instant of this madness. He could not stand those with no incentive to help.

Ika came running back, his hands flailing in the air wildly. "I found where they were located! I found the Spartans!"

Thel looked at him skeptically. "And apparently they found _you_ too."

Ika halted his excited frenzied movements and looked down, where his chest was splashed with bright pink paint. He had great, thick globs running over his helmet, his back, his chest, and his legs. Ika had learned the golden rule of playing with Spartans: they don't surprise well.

"…Well, yes."

"The idea is to find the _juggernaut_, idiot," put in Tiberius scathingly. "Not to find the Spartans. This isn't an Easter egg hunt."

Ika looked surprised and hurt. "Hey, I tried-"

"Not hard enough, imbecile."

While the two argued in vain, Thel concentrated on his meditation so he wouldn't kill everyone in sight, as he was so inclined to do.

* * *

"Welcome to the quiet before the storm hits, ladies."

Now the Chief stood before his 'men', noticeably lacking any of the opposite team's colors splashed across his armor. The random Elite had been beaten off and now the incentive to move had come. The juggernaut would be found, he vowed. That or every Elite on the other team would go home pink.

"A little birdie told me that the juggernaut is supposedly located on the far side of this gulch, in a cave three meters off the ground. I propose a full-board attack. He hasn't moved for three hours and Emile here is getting a little antsy. Let's move, troops."

And the only thing he could think of was how odd he looked compared to the rest of them. His armor was terribly plain and cliché.

"Boss," spoke up Kat, removing her helmet for a more face-to-face conversation. John didn't return the gesture. "We still have the Elites on the other side as well. Do we avoid them… or perhaps attack all at once?"

"Let's catch them by surprise, Spartan."

* * *

Seeing a team of Spartans running en masse struck fear into Thel's heart. He witnessed this awesome spectacle now as he and his team trekked across the clearing toward the cave at the far end, where a smudge of color stood out against the black, gaping mouth. He'd left the remainder of his team behind, leaving with only Tiberius and Ika in tow. The others had successfully fallen asleep in the sunlight after feasting on whatever food they had brought with them. Thel was reminded how much he loathed the youth.

"Scream!" gasped Ika as he finally caught sight of the forces moving toward them. "I-"

A paintball, literally shrieking with velocity, impacted in his face and splashed the inside of his mouth pink. Ika sputtered and spit in a futile attempt to rid himself of the vile substance, clearly not meant to be digested. As he bowed over and hacked, a second ballistic missile struck him in the forehead. He fell over, momentarily stunned.

Tiberius moved to the injured Elite while Thel kept up fire with the approaching Spartans. He attempted to lift Ika from the ground but the Elite, resembling a astonished and surprised dead mackerel, would not be moved. "No, Tiberius," he whispered hoarsely. He grabbed tightly to the Brute's muscular arm. "Carry on regardless of my fatal injuries."

The reek of drying paint filled Tiberius' nostrils.

"Please say hi to the juggernaut, for me."

The Brute sat straight up, one eyebrow quirked in confusion. He dropped the semi-conscious Elite, who made a strangled noise of protest. "That was the _lamest _death scene, coming from you," criticized Tiberius. "You're not even dying!"

Ika slapped the Brute across the face. "I WORKED SO HARD ON THAT!"

"_That's what she said_!" screamed Emile, suddenly appearing like the grim reaper himself and pumping his paintball shotgun once. He fired point-blank at Thel and a cluster of paintballs the size of small beads splattered across his chest.

Tiberius rose with the intent to help but was met with a face-full of pink paint.

* * *

Carter listened to the madness outside and moved farther into the cave. Maybe they would see him. He could certainly see them: a green Spartan wrestling a full-grown male Brute to the ground while Kat and Jorge went the opposite direction to dispatch the rest of the Elites. Emile kicked a second Elite, presumably the Arbiter, to the ground. The Arbiter grabbed his foot and twisted; the cocky Spartan tumbled to the ground and they exchanged slaps and punches, almost familiarly. Two ODSTs stood off in the distance, watching the spectacle with slight amusement.

Then suddenly the scuffles and short bursts of fire stopped, and it was deadly quiet.

Carter, incredibly nervous, backed up against the wall. Standing in the entry of the cave was someone he never thought he'd have to see. Someone he never wanted to meet again. This... was his nightmare.

He screamed as John started throw cake at him.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I gathered a cold so I know this update wasn't too spectacular (they aren't really anymore... great prompts but my slim talent is slimming) but I hope it's okay. So random. I'm starting a new series, sooner or later, and I have the link to the summary and characters in my profile. Live long and prosper, bros.**


	18. Ain't Worth It

**A/N: Alright, chickens. I've decided to draw up every character I've ever portrayed… I counted up and the magic number is sixty. SO for this story (the list is in my profile) I'd like for anyone who reviews to tell me what their favorite character's favorite pose or phrase or moment was. I'll draw up your choice, possibly attack photoshop with my bare hands, and post it on as a sketchdump. Kay kay? Oh, and this is another 'From the Game' short one, inspired by the cruelness of my brother.**

"The achievement is called 'If they Came to hear me Beg' and it involves-"

"Do I really want to hear this?" replied Noble-6 tiredly, as she leaned against the hillside and examined her sniper's rifle. She was pretty sure what Emile was about to say was something she _wouldn't _want to hear – call it premonition or experience – since it was Emile who had taken such a fascination in it. She imagined if the other Spartan removed his ever-there helmet she'd be faced with an energetic five-year-old. Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she moved closer to Emile in case she'd have to back-hand him.

Emile ignored her, saying, "It involves jumping off that cliff and knifing the Elite way down below. If you kill him, you get an achievement."

"And if I don't?" She was standing with her hands on her hips, entirely ready to smack him.

"Well, you die."

"...Is this_ really_ worth it?"

"For the sake of the greater people."

She rolled her eyes and emphasized her distress with a frustrated sigh. "I really, _really _hate being a guinea pig. Let's be clear about that."

"Don't be a wuss. All you have to do is jump and stab. Alright? Easy peasy, for Queen BJ."

_That's it_. Six punched him in the gut and Emile doubled over. "_Don't call me BJ_," she hissed. "_Or I'll kill you_."

"Gah."

* * *

"What death is this?"

Emile pretended to count on his fingers. "Um... _one... two... _seventy-two, I believe."

"Gah," Six replied. "I'm going to have a word with Player 1 any second now. Any second now, I'll brutally massacre that bastard and... crap."

She was forced to move forward again. The sprint capability was activated and she started booking it toward the edge. As she passed Emile he cheered and whooped. And the cliff was coming up rather fast - and she _jumped_ - soaring through the air but quickly following gravity in a steep decline. The ground was coming up fast and she pulled her knife, ready to stab the alien until he begged for mercy, but in a split-second...

...The Elite moved forward fractionally.

Six screamed in that split-second she had to scream, long and hard and angrily. She threw her knife at the Elite but it simply pinged uselessly off the strong armor. Six hit the ground and-

* * *

"Son of a bitch, I'm going to kill the Player."

"Not if he has anything to say about it," Emile said tiredly. He'd taken up post and was sitting on the edge of a rock, cleaning his own knife repetitiously just to keep himself occupied. Six was a few seconds away from throwing herself off the cliff in a desperate attempt to gain an achievement.

Six growled to herself.

When the command came to start running, she resisted. It put her codes into a frenzy, if she held out too long, but she was far past risking a little headache. The command came stronger and more erratic yet Six held out. Emile watched curiously, his knife still in his hand.

The game froze.

* * *

"_Hey you. Bastard._"

Kent stopped button mashing in his desperate attempt to un-freeze the game. He stared at the screen in surprise. Was she talking to him?

"_Yeah. I am._"

Kent began furiously tugging all the controls on the controller, trying to figure out how the hell this was happening.

"_Stop struggling_," said Noble-Six, the grim eagerness in her voice making it lower and more gravelly. "_You wouldn't want to piss me off._"

The entire screen was frozen, a snapshot of the two Spartans standing still on the clifftop. In the distance, he saw the _Pillar of Autumn_ and a stormy sky. Six's back glowed blue from the AI carrying case strapped there.

"_Don't even think about turning it off, numbskull. See that AI? My mission is to get her to the Chief. It's not to play silly little games of suicide! Get that through your head OR FREAKING GET YOUR SISTER TO PLAY FOR YOU!_"

Kent screamed.

* * *

**A/N: I know, it's a bad update. It was going somewhere but I have a fever and I'm totally ready to pass out. But thanks Kire for the prompt. Um, peeps don't forget to review with ideas for this series and for the art. 'Kay? Be good to your parents. Brush your teeth.**

**I'm going to go pass out now.  
**


	19. Who's In the Vents?

It was raining, midnight, and deathly quiet aside from the occasional bark of laughter appropriate to the girls' corner of the empty bar. In the corner a man strummed a guitar, singing gently, and at the station the bartender cleaned grimy glass mugs with an equally grimy rag, perfectly filling the bartender stereotype. He was listening in on the girls' conversation nonchalantly as he leaned against the counter, pretending to watch the only ceiling fan whirl brokenly. With every whir there was a click. The 'tender vowed to fix that one day; he knew it would grow to bother him if he paid it too much attention.

The door swung open, almost entirely by wind rather than muscle, accompanied by a cheerful ring of a bell and a colorful violation of the tongue. Noble Six, or 'BJ' as she came to be known in the barracks, entered the bar cursing and shaking off water. She shook out her short, honey-blond hair and dropped her soaked wool sweater on the floor beside the door, missing the coat rack so badly, it seemed intentional. Underneath she wore an identical black wool turtleneck, black jeans, and a pair of black boots. She made her way to the back of the bar – toward where the harsh laughter came from.

She threw herself down on the leather-backed booth and stretched out from the wall to the edge of the bench. She reached across the table, picked up Cortana's beer, and downed the rest of it in one go. "Well, you're right," she said skeptically. "This is one bitchin' bitches party."

Cortana pursed her lips. "I was going to drink that, Jove."

BJ squinted through the bottle's neck, trying to find that last drop of liquid lurking at the bottom. She took a quick swig, and upon realizing there was nothing lurking, replied, "Not any more, you weren't."

Cortana rolled her eyes. She drew her jean jacket closer around her; that bartender was giving her funny looks. She shot a glance at the guitarist, who made direct eye contact, then nodded once. She nodded back in reply and the man began a new song, this one entirely instrumental.

"Who else is coming?" questioned Jove as she tried to call the bartender over, much the same as she would wave down a taxi. The man looked at her as if wondering if she were already drunk, but brought another bottle over anyway.

"I phoned Kat, but I think she's busy tonight. Kelly's for sure, Linda's passing by, and I _think _I got a hold of Lucy. I can never be sure with that woman."

Jove wrinkled her nose. "You invited Kat?" (She said this while speaking in a strong Russian accent). "But she's so… linear."

"Mm. Something to do with her work for now. Merchant Joe's, or something like that."

"How about Linda?"

"She's on her way to a wedding. Lucy's boyfriend, Finn, said they had a game night."

At that moment the door slammed open, and also simultaneously, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. A woman wearing tight leathers, with her rusty red hair flying like a banner in the wind, stepped inside and kicked the door behind her shut. It was so loud that every person stopped and watched her stalk past the tables with their upturned chairs and the bartender with a odd smirk on his lips. When she came to the table she stood akimbo, leaning over the chair and exposing to Cortana and Jove a little bit of cheesecake. Then, as if vaguely aware of her exposure, she zipped up the leather jacket to her neck and smiled apologetically. "Sorry," she said. "I was somewhere else before this."

Cortana looked at Jove's drink casually then back at Kelly. Then she leaned back against her booth bench at the guitarist. She glared at the man, who tugged at his turtleneck and began playing his instrument quicker, avoiding glancing at Kelly's considerable Kelly-ness. The former Spartan in question took a seat next to Cortana, seeing as Jove wasn't moving.

"Hi!" started Jove, though she made no move to actually greet the woman. Kelly smirked and gave a diminutive reply, before turning to Cortana.

"New kid?" she asked roughly, jerking her head at Jove, who glared at her for using the discriminating term 'new'. With a huff she took another swig of beer.

"Basically, yeah."

"Oh. Where's Linda?"

"Wedding."

Kelly narrowed her eyes. "Whose wedding?"

(Jove bit her lip, as the response 'You mom' was a little too pressing).

Cortana shrugged. "Who knows. But, ah…"

She fell silent and back against the cushioned leather bench. Kelly took the hint and ordered a drink. Jove stretched her legs until she heard a pop. The petty conversation that had persisted now fell through the cracks; they were reduced to hearing the hiss of the radiator and the fall of sleet against the windows and the gentle guitar. While Kelly tried to make eye contact with the guitarist and mentally send him her number, Cortana tinkered with the salt shaker. And while the guitarist tried to avoid the telepathic waves assaulting his conscience, Jove tried to lift up the bottle using only her mind. The next few minutes, that is, until Linda dramatically fell from the vents, were spent in awkward silence and strained wits.

Linda fell dramatically from the vents, crashing directly onto the guitarist, who had just begun to recover from the psychological attack, and almost gored herself of the guitar. Thankfully the guitarist was quick from his heightened awareness (thanks to Kelly's arrival) and caught her before there would be no more Linda.

"You alright, ma'am?" he asked quietly as he set her on her feet. Linda jumped at his voice and randomly slapped him. He recoiled from the movement, but simply sighed and put up his stool again as she moved away.

She wiped dust and grime from her skirt and shirt. Jove sat up quickly so as to make room for the jumpy woman. Linda flipped her dark red hair over her shoulder and took a seat. She flattened out the wrinkled table cloth.

Meanwhile, the three other women stared at her waiting for the sniper to spontaneously combust in, say, confetti and children screams.

"I'm good."

None of them seemed to find the nerve to reply. Jove took a large gulp of iced water and held it in her mouth, then pretended to read the menu. Cortana examined the ceiling, but Kelly looked at Linda and asked, "Whose wedding?" quite cheerily without sounding too uneasy.

"My brothers'. God, I get so tired of kicking their asses at grifball _every _single _time_."

Jove coughed and sprayed water against the inside of the menu. All Cortana saw when she looked was a slight shaking of the paper menu and water dripping down, followed by strangled laughing.

Linda stopped her explanation and glared at Jove. "Who's the new girl?"

"Gah?" replied Jove, but it started sort of questioning and ended sort of indignant.

"God. Why was I invited to this? I had a bottle of wine and some cleaning to do at home."

(Jove suspected the 'cleaning' involved a sniper rifle and a greasy rag).

"Well, it's been a while. Thought we should get together. To have a girls' night-"

"I think you mean a _Bitches' Night_," put in Jove helpfully, indicating Cortana with her beer bottle. For the second time that night, Jove found herself seeking that last drop at the bottom of the glass. It was still not there. Where had it gone?

"…Yes…"

Jove put down her beer bottle and twirled it. She scrutinized the spinning glass and frowned. It began to slow. The guitarist halted his strumming and watched curiously.

The glass stopped on Kelly.

"Isn't a Night without spin the bottle. Spill, woman," ordered Jove.

"Spill what?"

"Where you were before you came here."

"Oh, you don't want to know that. My life sucks; you don't need to know." Kelly held her chin in her hand and rested her elbow on the table. She was once again looking at the guitarist almost helplessly. The bartender pulled out his reading glasses and began to peer owlishly at the ingredients of tonic.

Jove pointed at the glass and raised an eyebrow. "Ouija gods dictate it."

"….I was at a book reading club."

There was a off-key screech as one of the strings broke on the guitar.

"Whoa, man. Kelly at a book club?"

Kelly scowled. "My life sucks, alright? I used to be a Spartan kick-ass space woman fighting aliens with bullets and paint for the greater good of the human race. And now I have _this_." She waved vaguely at her surroundings – at the spacing-out Cortana fiddling with the salt shaker, at Linda, who's heartbeat was still slowing from the off-key screech, and at Jove, who had discovered a bit of leaf woven in her hair. Kelly took a swig of beer and groaned. "Hanging out in some run-down bar drinking watered-down alcohol and listening to THE WORST GUITAR PLAYER I HAVE EVER HEARD."

The Rookie looked at Kelly with wide eyes, slipped away from his stool, and left through the back door with his guitar slung over his back.

"My life sucks," finished Kelly.

They all thought about this. When Jove had finished prying the leaf from her hair she reached over and spun the bottle once again. This time, it landed on Linda.

"What is one thing that sucks in my life…. Hmm…" said Linda thoughtfully, tapping her chin curiously. "My roommate in college once put a frog in my bed, and ahaha, I remember what happened after that…" she delved into laughter. Jove inched away.

"Okay, okay, let's leave it at that, alright? Ouija gods, show us the way!" She spun the bottle again.

Cortana reached out and stopped the bottle directly on herself.

The group stared at her.

"I'm thirty-two years old and I've been in a relationship for seven years. My boyfriend doesn't talk to me."

The group descended into screams of surprise and laughter. By the time midnight rolled around, the Rookie had slunk back into the bar and was playing Arco Arena by Cake on his guitar.

**A/N: Sorry, this kind of died at the end. I was so on a roll then I took a peek at the results of a test and nose-dived; they weren't at all what I expected. Way to kick my morale in the face. Anyway. Prompt by Kire's unmentioned friend; my thanks to them both for a humorous suggestion! Sorry it couldn't be more; I'm so tired.**


	20. Au7th3r5 N073

**Author's Note -**

Okay, look. I really love writing this story. Unfortunately, seeing as it is based on fan reviews, and over the last few weeks there has been a significant drop in said reviews, I will be marking this parody series as complete, until further notice. I really appreciate the past feedback, and I really love to see all those favorite story/story alerts in my e-mail, so my thanks to all.

For those of you whose concepts I did not attack relentlessly, I apologize. Perhaps in the near future I can manage to start this series up again. With a bit more of Reach parody goodness. For the time being, I'll be directing my efforts toward my newest series to come out, _Following the Dawn_ (you can find the details on my prof). If you want to still read some random stuff, I'll be posting at my account on deviantArt. See my profile for that too.

So all in all, thanks guys. Writing this series has been so much fun. I'll keep writing; good hunting.


	21. WTF, Buck

**_A/N: I'm coming back to this story! __Yay me. Anyway, thanks for the last few reviewers, especially Sergeant Dreamer, Telegram, and Lady Laconia. I hoped to fit in a bunch of requests from the past few months, but if I didn't get yours in, I'll try to later. Anyway, feel free to send me more requests! I love your guys' ideas. _**

**_Also I spent all December watching Red vs Blue all night long sooo... yeah. You might see Sarge some time soon. And who can guess the woman's voice in the beginning?  
_**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Halo, or any other things in this story that you might recognize. They belong to their respective owners.

* * *

_**

"Character support meeting commencing," chimed a cheerful, feminine voice over the intercom. "Please take your seats. The Chairman has the floor."

A tall, green-armored man, supposedly the Chairman, took up post behind the podium situated before the motley assortment of men and women. He removed his gold-glassed helmet and attempted a reassuring smile at the masses. But for a man who's face was etched with fleshy scars, and who had a discouraging habit of staring into your soul with his deep-set eyes, John had little hope in achieving his goal. Luckily, he did not seem to realize his failure. Instead he calmly waited for the masses to cease talking and when they did, he leaned forward fractionally to speak into the bulbous microphone.

"Before we begin, a few public announcements," he said laconically. Then he promptly left the stage, reinstating his character feature: the remarkable ability to speak as little as possible. His departure was met with a few Thank-God-he's-gone claps. Unfortunately, the former Master Chief of the UNSC military had the boring habit of going on and on about his supposed exile into the ass-end of space. Somehow the Spartan was capable of discarding his well-tailored public image in favor of making sure everyone in the group knew of his displeasure and sense of betrayal. Despite his annoying rants (and everyone's obvious discomfort), he could definitely say that everyone this side of life knew his words on the matter.

His position was replaced with that of a young woman wearing a polite black cocktail dress, her short dark hair neatly combed and shining nicely. As soon as she smiled, the support group masses stopped their individual chatting, since she was immediately recognized as Cortana, and had for herself earned a sort of queen-like status for being an Olde Halo Veteran.

(When she had organized the stitching and unstitching, a process required for removing a character from one environment and placing them into another, she had changed her appearance to be more suitable. For some reason appearing before the masses as a naked, blue woman with codes scrolling up and down her body seemed a bit daft. However none of the others had their physical appearance altered in any other significant way, except for the Master Chief, who felt having a face to talk to was a good idea.)

"I would like to address several issues put to the Chairman," began Cortana. "We ask that your suggestions are anonymous, but it appears some of you don't really care about your identity."

There was a collective shifting of heads as a few dozen people rapidly looked at the 3 Stooges, otherwise known as the three characters of the Halo games voiced by the same Canadian actor; there was Sergeant Reynolds (_Halo 3_), 'Gunny' Edward Buck (_Halo: ODST_), and Gunnery Sergeant Buck (_Halo Reach_). They were well known for their arguments for who was the better looking, as well as their open disregard for identity, quite similar to the mindset of triplet brothers. Obviously the Gunnery Sergeant had the best of luck, seeing as he did not truly have a physical representation in _Halo Reach_, and was able to copy the Gunny's image and alter it slightly. This did not necessarily mean he was better-looking than the Gunny, since the GS actually based his rate of handsomosity on his own personal choices – i.e., his nose was a bit too flared and his eyes were a little too shiny. But he sure could strut as though he was as attractive as he felt.

"First up: a recent complaint we've had about the overwhelming amount of Kat pairings lately. The writer says here:

'_**Being the only woman on the team makes Noble-2 the automatic first candidate for any written pairing. I would also like to disarm the rumor about a Kat fan club. There was no meeting last week on Thursday at 6:30 p.m. and there will not be another one this Thursday either. KatxEveryone is not an option anymore, until Kat announces her preference.'**_

This recital brought a few noises of questionable intents, which in reality were the men of Noble Team making a clamor so their neighbors couldn't hear their phones vibrating. Jorge, Emile, and Jun nervously squirmed in their foldout seats. Carter, meanwhile, was receiving the Killing Eye from Kat, who had come to realize she had not written that particular complaint. She slowly crossed her arms.

Carter tried to remain inconspicuous as he finished posting on his Wall about the new meeting that Thursday at 6:30. He was, however, slowly dying on the inside as Kat continued to glare.

Cortana observed this from a safe distance and stifled a laugh. "Speaking of fan clubs, we have a few new ones in honor of some new pairings on the market. Number one on the list, based on popularity, is…" here her voice faltered, "_MCxC Fan Club_. Mm. 921 members…"

Someone in the masses whistled appreciatively.

Cortana sent a hasty glance at the Master Chief, who had taken a drink with him to the upper level of chairs, and was suddenly finding his red plastic cup very, very interesting.

"Second is _EmilexKukri_, at 32 members. Third comes the _Buck Fan Club _at three members. Although I cannot guarantee the validity of some of these clubs, I suggest we check them out! Could be promising!"

In the back of the room, John choked on his soda, and it splashed all over his armor.

"We will be admitting new members this coming Sunday. A group of characters from the popular web machinima, _Red vs Blue_.

"Now I want you kids to play nice. You all know what it's like to be new."

This was met with a few shuffles and grumbles. No one truly believed it would be hard for anyone on either team to adjust.

Cortana made a face at the small remarks, but nonetheless continued. She made a few more public announcements, reminding them the Character Support Meeting would come together every Friday night in Sector 2-b (also known as the auditorium in New Alexandria. There had been some minor mishaps with the code compatibility, especially with those of the earlier games, but those were easily overwritten). When she had finished, she allowed the group to submit to the small talk that had been obviously bothering them for the past thirty minutes.

The Auditorium erupted with chatter as soon as Cortana left the podium. The building itself closely resembled the stadium-like ones in universities, with ten rows of folding chairs and two aisles that led to firmly closed doors, and because of its architecture the noise made by a few dozen voices echoed like football game cheers. Several people rose from their seats and went ground level, where three white fold out tables had been decorated liberally with snacks. In technicality, none of the 'avatars' could actually eat the food, but part of the programming put into the auditorium allowed for certain actions so it appeared they were eating. Right now dozens of characters rushed from their chairs with the enthusiasm associated with the lust for food.

* * *

However, in the back of the room, two characters remained, tucked neatly into two chairs furthest from the aisle and the door. Sitting in the corner seat, the Rookie was staring intently at the Huragok drifted next to him. Vergil's cilia-covered tentacles were raised in gestures of comforting patience. It was apparent a teaching lesson was in session.

(_Explain, pairing, please?_) begged the Huragok, his cilia fidgeting and signing their unique language. The Rookie watched as Vergil repeated the action again so as to improve comprehension. Smiling with success, the Rookie raised his naked hands and quickly signed back, flexing his scarred fingers with the dexterity of a Huragok.

(_Meaning, two people, together_.)

Vergil's 'head' twisted sideways in an indication of confusion, blinking all six sensory nodes. Huragok pairing was much different, as far as the Rookie knew. But he didn't have the ability to explain what the difference between human reproduction and Huragok. Somehow, even if he did know, he doubted he'd actually explain it.

* * *

"_CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG-_!"

Behind the pounding in her head Jove could hear the cheering of her allies. Jorge was slapping her on the back as she reached for another shot glass and downed as quickly as if she was drinking hellfire. Across the table, a man of his early forties reached for his own damnation and drank it somewhat slower. He wiped imaginary scotch from his grizzled jawline, grinning wolfishly at the Spartan.

"Think you can make one more round?" he shouted over the din, and the crowd that had gathered quieted as Jove pounded the table, everything on it jumping a few inches into the air. Jove reached for another glass, drank it down, and threw it on the ground, where it shattered, spraying shards of glass and drops of scotch every which-a-way.

"Bring it, _bitch_!"

Glasses filled to the brim with various types of alcohol were drained like they were the Waters of Eternal Youth. Jove had smoothed her honey blond hair over one side of her head and was grinning as if she should have a knife between her teeth. Forge, on the other hand, had the 3 Stooges clapping him on the back and cheering him on like the good men they were, even if they could disappear at a moment's notice if things went bad. Jove had the entire Noble Team (and curiously, most of the rooting came from Emile) on her side. A right old ruckus was starting up, but unfortunately, they were running out of booze.

Suddenly, a balding man with his lips split in a broad smile came roller skating into the scene, in his arms a basket full of beer.

He was met with a uproar of cheers and hoots as he distributed the alcohol.

* * *

When the drinking contest had successfully died down, and the non-drunk operatives had dispersed, another fight had begun.

These events were not unexpected. At least once during a Support Meeting, Jove and Forge got drunk (usually in each other's company), Emile got shot, the Chief dropped some sort of liquid, the Rookie beat Dutch into the dirt at a poker match, and there was a fight. Last time it had been between Jun and Romeo when Jun proved to be the better sniper but Romeo proved to having a quicker left hook. And before that there was a fight between the Master Chief and Carter over who was the better Spartan, which was primarily an event that started when the Chief had clearly shown his proficiency at the baking-and-throwing-a-cake set.

Neither had won that fight because Jorge had intervened and Jorge had won, of course.

Oh, and there had been that time when Cortana had slapped the Chief in the face with an angelfood frosted cake, which had started a food fight of such proportions that Jorge had intervened again. But then Jun threw that legendary raspberry shortcake which had splashed across Jorge's face just as he had turned to face Jun, meaning that Jorge both caught a face-full of raspberry filling and a clear vision of who had thrown it.

Now that had been a curious experience for the small sniper.

As the Rookie and Vergil were conversing with their hands in the farthest corner imaginable, the majority of Noble Team having calmed down from the drinking match, and Johnson having started another with Jerome of Red Team, it was easy to tell that the most exciting part of the meeting had ended. The ODSTs were still playing cards at one of the side of the room somewhat quietly, with Dutch winning every hand, and Mickey looking darn near tempted to call over the Rookie. Veronica Dare looked down on the game from over Buck's shoulder and grinned at his cards.

This was the usual path of the meeting. Usually, they were able to gather the characters together by 10:00 eastern time, if the Player wasn't up that late. They could get the characters stitched in by 10:30 and the meeting usually started fifteen after eleven. But the actual meeting lasted, at most, thirty minutes. The assumed celebrations following lasted until the Player's Xbox was turned on.

Johnson had ceased drinking, and seemingly remarkably sober, was showing the Arbiter Ripa the 'real human music'. One earbud was near Ripa's ear, the other in Johnson's ear completely. The sergeant had a curious look on him, like a mix between euphoria and a bad smell. Ripa was looking surprised.

Cortana had disappeared. Coincidentally, so had the Master Chief. But that was only a coincidence, probably.

Prior we mentioned Emile getting shot. This is his story. Actually, that's happening just now.

* * *

One of the doors slammed open and a dark blur flew through it. Evidently Emile had forgotten that the seating arrangement angled downward. Gravity took hold and the Spartan tumbled down the stairs, past the Rook (who had just ventured from his corner) and the Arbiter (who had been discussing molecular physics with Ellen Anders), finally coming to a stop when his face came in contact with the ground. When everyone had finished looking at Emile they chanced to look up at the door. There stood Catherine Halsey, wielding two .45 Colt pistols, both smoking.

"Oh, shit," said Kat, sounding somewhat bored, as everyone's jaws dropped.

Emile glanced over his shoulder, caught sight of the doctor, and struggled to his feet, eager to escape. Catherine barked a curse word that should not be repeated in front of children 10 and younger. Then she lowered both pistols and shot Emile as he reached for the doorknob of the fire exit door. The shots rang out and echoed fiercely through the amphitheater. Everyone jumped at the noise but nonetheless sat tight to watch.

Emile yelped and grabbed the back of his leg, where the .45 caliber bullet and punctured his stitched image. He whipped about to face the doctor as she slowly walked down the steps. Halsey had her graying hair pulled up in a spandex-tight bun, and she was wearing a knee-length black dress, with knee-high leather boots. Her white lab coat was unbuttoned and slightly dirtied on the sleeves. She looked pretty good for a woman her age.

The look on her face, however, was enough to get half the Support Meeting, or the half that were Spartans, scrambling for cover. They knew that look. And they knew what came next.

However at the moment another door, the one opposite Emile's escape, was kicked open. A cloud of dust swirled in, rolling across the floor dramatically. A obscured figure swaggered in. When the dirt had cleared, it became obvious who the newest contestant was.

Captain Jacob Keyes winked at the gawking Halsey and tipped his cowboy hat politely.

"Howdy, darlin'."

Halsey made a noise of outright disgust and shot him.

But obviously, Keyes had been expecting this, and easily dodged the bullet. Quick as lightning he pulled his revolver from his holster and loosed two shots at Halsey. Her hair miraculously sprang free of its ties as she jumped and somersaulted behind the podium. Two more bullets lodged themselves in the thick wood.

Meanwhile, the original meeting members were hiding behind a foldout chair barrier they had formed. Forge, still drunk, was sitting in Jove's lap and Carter was hugging Kat tightly, clearly scared out of his senses. Kat looked ready to explode.

Still, the Chief and Cortana were missing.

Coincidentally, of course. I'm sure they were just making macaroni art.

"Two shots left, Capt'n!" shouted Halsey from behind the podium. Keyes had taken up position on the highest level of chairs in the amphitheater. There were a few clicks as he reloaded. Catherine peeked over the edge of the podium and marked his position. Then she darted from behind the podium, shooting at the captain as she ran. She backed against the door, using her momentum to shove it open, and ran down the hall, reloading her Colts as she went.

The Character Support Meeting members watched as Keyes hopped over the numerous rows and chased after her. The door swung shut and in the distance one could clearly hear gunshots.

"Could someone give me some help?" came a very small, very pained voice, and everyone collectively looked at Emile, who had roughly five bullets in his leg.

No one moved to help him.

* * *

_**A/N: If that was not the weirdest fight scene in the universe please tell me because I think I just burned my eyes**_


End file.
